GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REE&E 


ft'* 


?heir  Answers  to  the  Question,1 

'      Hasina  Coolbrith  Done ?" 

i 

\'ERRY     JOKES     AT     WRITERS     WHO 
:    DARED  TO  COMMEND  HER  WORK. 


*>cunrt  Trustees  Who  Might  Be  Amused 
1  at  Opinions  of  Ambrose  Bierce  and 
!-j»  Joaquln  Miller  and  Charlen  Warren 
I  Stoddard  and  Henry  W  arts  worth  Long 
fellow  and  John  Greonleaf  Whittler. 


What  has  Ina  Coolbrith  done? 

'She  has  written  some  verses.  Of  course, 
•jery  one  who  reads  knows  that.  She  has 
,«•  nearly  twenty  years  selected  the  books 

*nt  Oakland  people— the  people  who  can- 

t  buy  books— have  been  reading.     Some 

j'Ople  know  about  that,  too,  but  they  do 
Jit  always  remember  it.  The  books  are  on 

.9  shelves  of  the  Free  Library  and  people 
Uke  them  out  and  bring  them  back. 

They  have  not  thought  much  about  the 

who  selected   them,    the  one  who  has 

jfeti  the  master  mind  in  the  Oakland  Public 

brary  from  the  time  that  it  was  a  small 

jvate  library  until  it  became  a  large  pub- 
ic  institution  of  which  5,000  people  make 

)  every  month,  until  now— and  now  be- 
ause  the  library  is  to  lo«e  Ina  Coolbrith. 

The  library  is  to  lose  her  services  because 

Qfi  five  trustees  ask  her  resignation  from 

>sition  she  has  held  for  eighteen  years. 

|* What  has  Miss  Ina  Coolbrith  done?" 

feed  a  Trustee,  one  of  the  five.     "  We  do 

care  for  a  poet  in   the    library.     We 

jut  a  librarian.    Of  course,  we  expect  her 

erary  friends  will  be  angry  at  our  action, 

t  we  cannot  help  that." 

"  literary  friends  "  of  Ina  Coolbrith 
to  be  a  fine  joke  to  the  Trustees,  who 


enjoy  a  jest  at  the  writers  who  commend  i 
Miss  Coolbrith's  work,  the  writers  who  can  j 
answer  the  question  of  the  Trustee,  "  What ' 
has  Ina  Coolbrith  done?" 

The  Trustees  may  have  a  good  laugh  at 
Longfellow— Longfellow  is  dead,  you  know  ' 
-who  said  to  Charles  H.  Phelps :  "  I  know 
that  California  has  at  least  one  poet.  Her 
publisher  sent  me  a  book  of  Ina  Coolbrith's 
poems,  and  I  have  been  reading  them  with 
delight." 

i 

JAMES  F.  BOWMAN'S  ANSWER. 
James  F.  Bowman  left  his  answer  to  the  ! 
question.    About  the  time  of  the  publication  ; 
of  Miss  Coolbrith's  book  of  verse  he  wrote  ; 

It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  surprise  among 
persons  of  literary  taste  that  the  poems  of  Ina 
D.  Coolbrith  contributed  during  the  last  twelve 
years  to  various  California  and  Eastern  period 
icals  have  never  been  presented  to  the  public  in 
a  permanent  form.  Their  rare  intrinsic  merit 
and  their  marked  individuality  greatlv  distin 
guish  them  from  the  flood  of  ephemeral  verse  of 
the  average  magazine  standard  and  justifv  the 
desire  which  has  been  widely  felt  and  frequently 
expressed  to  see  them  collected  in  a  volume 
Those  who  are  endowed  with  the  taste  and  feel 
ing  requsite  for  the  full  appreciation  of  such 
rare  poetic  genius  as  "A  Perfect  Day "  "A 
Prayer  for  Strength,"  "Beside  the  Dead  "  "In 
Blossom  Time,"  •' Meadow  Larks"  and '"The 
Mother  s  Grief,"  could  not  willingly  see  them 
consigned  to  the  oblivion  which  is  tho 
natural  lot  of  the  great  bulk  of  fugitive 
poetry.  For  it  has  been  deeply  felt  by  thousands 
or  thoughtful  readers  that  these  exquisite 
fragments  of  song  "  are  broadly  discriminated 
from  that  class  of  agreeable  and  polished  met- 
trlcal  productions  which,  after  affording  a  mo 
mentary  pleasure  in  the  perusal,  are  laid  by 
and  forgotten  without  a  regret,  having  stirred 
no  emotion  and  awakened  no  thought  vital 
enough  to  g:ve  birth  to  the  wish  to  make  thoin 
a  gart  of  our  permanent  household  treasures 
They  are  not  like  the  greater  portion  of  con 
temporary  magazine  verse,  the  product  of  mere 
culture  and  poetic  feeling,  stimulated  by  literary 
aspiration. 

Many  of  Miss  Coolbrith's  poems  have  been 
extensively  copied  in  various  American  and 
English  publications,  obtaining  for  their  author 
a  wider  recognition  than  has  been  won  by  any 
other  California  poet,  with  but  a  single  excep 
tion.  It  has  been  said  that  Miss  Coolbrith's 
reputation  has  become  national,  and  if  by  this 
it  IH  meant  that  her  poems  have  met  with  a 
warm  and  loving  appreciation  by  a  large  class 
of  cultivated  minds  in  every  part  of  the  country 
the  declaration  is  not  exaggerated.  They  are 
too  thoughtful,  though,  and  too  strongly 
imbued  with  that  autumnal  pensiveness 
engendered  in  contemplative  minds  by  the  ex 


been  one   in  which 


mo  .ajoo,  , 
been  more  of] 


shadow  than  of  sunshine— to  touch  the  chord  of 
superficial  feelinz.  But  there  ia  no  trace  of 
morbidness  in  this  pensive  quality  of  Miss  Cool- 
brith's  verse — a  quality  whioa  is  not  sadness, 
though  it  has  been  characterized  as  such  by  an 
Eastern  critic,  and  which 

"Is  not  akin  to  pain, 
But  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  rain." 
Her  mus-e  has  all  the  wholesome  sweetness  as 
well  as  the   austere  reserve  of  Wordsworth,  or 
even    of    George    Herbert,    whose    very    spirit 
breathes  in  th<>  exquisi'e  little   poem,  "A  Per 
fect  Day."    Indeed,  the  peculiar  charm  of  these 
poems  is  ono  that,  while  it  will  make  them  pre 
cious  to  the  lovers  of  the   "high  and  tender 
muses"  invoked  by  Wordsworth,  is  not  likely 
to  be  felt  by  those  who  relish  the  more  popular 
|  literature  of  the  day. 

WOMAN    COMRADES. 

A  little  answer  was  given  by  Miliicent  W. 
Shinn,  when,  ten  years  ago,  for  the  Cali- 
/ornian,  she  wrote  this  paragraph : 

Among  the  writers  who  have  attracted  atten 
tion  upon  this  Coast  for  the  real  merit  of  their 
productions,  none  has  enjoyed  a  larger  degree 
of  appreciation  than  Miss  Ina  Coolbrith,  whose 
poems  have  been  copied  and  r°ad  wherever  the 
English  language  is  spoken.     Miss   Coolbrith  is 
i  fortunate  in  being   almost  a  pioneer  in  one  re- 
i  spect.    She  has  felt  the  life  of  a  new  land  and 
!  given  it  utterance  with  the  grace  and  finish  of 
'  an  older  literature.    There  are  a  few  crudities 
in  her  work.    There  is   no  distressing  effort  to 
be  new  or  madly  original  in  expression  as  well 
as  in  thousrht.    There  is   better  art  than   that. 
Miss  Coolbrit.h  has  seen  new  things,  has  felt 
new  things,  lias  been  part  of  a  new  social  de 
velopment,  and  in  giving  these  "  a  local  habita 
tion  and  a  name,"  ah*.-  has  yet  been  able  to  pre-  ; 
serve  that  conservatism  to  which  her  poems  ' 
owe  their  exquisite  finish. 

The  merry  wags  of  Trustees  may  have 
rollicking  fun  at  the  Boston  Transcript, 
which  declared  that  "  California  has  at  least 
one  true  poet,  Ina  Coolbrith,"  and  at  the 
comment  in  the  Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette  that  Miss  Coolbrlth's  verses  "have 
the  genuine  poetic  ring."  They  may  enjoy 
the  following  words  of  Flora  Haines  Ap- 
ponyi  (Mrs.  Loughead),  printed  in  the  San 
Franciscan: 

Ina  D.  Coolbrith  ranks  first  among  California 
poets  She  was  one  of  thy  writers  tor  the  old 
Overland,  and  in  the  days  when  that  magazine 
was  at  its  height  of  prosperity  all  looked  to 
her  as  one  to  take  rank  among  the  recognized 
lUerary  workers  of  the  country.  Other  duties 
havo  stepped  between  her  and  the  work  which 
would  liuve  been  most  cong  nial,  retarding,  but 
I  we  trust  not  forever  imped);;/?,  the  fulfillment 


feeling  and  elevation  of  thought.  Miss  Coc 
brith  is  tall  and  stately,  with  a  dignity  whic 
approaches  austerity  toward  strangers,  bt 
which  in  the  company  of  her  friends  unbent 
into  a  peculiarly  gentle  and  winning  mamie 
She  has  never  realized  trie  full  measure  of  he 
powers,  but  those  who  know  her  recognizr  1 
her  rare  critical  power  and  a  keen  analysis  < 
character,  together  with  a  fine  vein  of  satli 
and  delicate  touch  of  humor. 

Mrs.  Ella  Sterling  Cummings  gave  th 
for  her  answer  to  the  question,  "Wh; 
has  Ina  Coolbrith  done?  " 

The  only  woman  of  these  early  writers 
acquire  popular  celebrity  and  fame  that  shov 
no  signs  of  diminishing  with  the  years  is  It 
D.  Coolbrith,  and  no  one  has  yet  appear* 
among  California  women  to  wrest  the  laure 
from  her  or  even  to  share  them.  In  this  ear 
time  her  verses  are  thoughtful  and  finishe 
which  make  them  stand  out  like  cameos  in  tl 
sand. 

The  jovial  jokers  might  accept  this  cha 


what  others  have  written  in  prose,  in  tne 
September  number  of  the  Overland  Monthl. 
was  this  verse : 

TO  INA  D.  COOLBRITH. 

The  soft  tones  of  thy  lute 
Have  all  too  long  been  mute; 
Ah,  take  it  once  again, 
And  thrill  us  now  as  then  I 

Breathe  its  sweet  lips  apart, 
And  wake  that  silent  heart; 
Too  long  has  it  been  dumb, 
Waiting  for  spring  to  come. 

It  ma  jibe  sweet  to  lie 
Sealed  with  God's  mystery; 
But  with  so  much  to  Rive 
How  sweeter  far  to  live ! 

Who  hears  the  skylark's  song 
But  does  remember  long 
How  that  soft  throbbing  fire 
Gave  voice  his  own  desire? 

istory^'tff '  ine*  larger-  'sy urea  Ji,ast  ol  our 
ountry  has  a  good  record  in  this  respect, 
"he  energies  of  pioneers  are  devoted  to 
he  acquisition  of  wealth  and  the  subjection 
f  the  territory  into  which  they  have  en 
ured.  In  their  mad  haste  for  material 
irosperity  the  higher  ideals  of  life  are  over- 
ooked  and  somewhat  disregarded,  and  it  is 
ot  until  society  has  crystallized  into  more 
f  a  permanent  form  and  accumulated 
wealth  gives  leisure,  that  the  thoughts  of 
lan  turn  to  the  fostering  of  the  fine  arts. 
Another  evidence  that  this  period  of  archi- 
ictural  transition  is  favorably  going  on 
•ill  be  the  installation  of  German  Savings 
nd  Loan  Society  in  its  new  building  at  No. 
26  California  street.  This  structure  was 
esigned  and  erected  solely  for  bank  pur- 
oses.  The  building  is  of  the  modern 
enaissance  style.  It  presents  an  imposing 
ront  of  stone  and  marble,  a  fitting  counter- 
art  to  the  grand  interior.  While  the  front 
richly  designed,  there  is  not  too  much, 
rnamentation.  The  entrance  is  bold, 
notable  among  its  features 
are  the  square  columns  of  pol- 
hed  red  beach  Maine  granite.  All 
ne  other  granite  of  which  there  is  a 
beral  use  is  from  Raymond,  Fresno  county, 
VM.  Italian  marble  is  used  for  the  capitals 
l  sculpture  work.  Much  of  the  exposed 
of  us  all  the  time  chattering  and  crv- 


ing  out  to  be  neara  lying  like  Satan  about  our- 
selves—shooting  rockets,  red  lights,  blue  lights 
yellow  lights-all  in  the  vain  hope  to  be  heard 
and  seen  for  a  second  above  all  others.  till  life 
Lord  *  b°re*  an  abomlnatl°a  unto  the 

Let  us  thank  our  stars  that  here  Is  a  beauti 
ful  woman,  beautiful  almost  beyond  compari 
son,  inspired  beyond  all  comparison  in  her  pe 
culiarly  pure,  sweet  way  of  work  who  refill 
positively  to  be  heard  from,  save'silently  to  ?ay 
her  little  hand  in  your  hand  and  sav,  "  Good 
day,  sir.'  A  rare  woman!  Bear  witness  I  am 
°ot  even  able  to  get  a  photograph  of  her  beau- 

Charley  Stoddard   first  took  me  to  see  her 

Ther'e  BrTttf  t8tlV  """^  *  flrat  met  *ulS3 
there,  Bret  Harte  also.  She  was  the  center  of 

a  little  world  the  San  Francisco  world     Stod 

dard  once  told  me  that  she  had  never  had  any 

n,er  work   returned  to  her.    This  seems  re 

markable.    I  know  that  I  never,   even  to  this 

day>,  wlt,h  »u  my  experience,  send  off  a  piece  of 

work  with  any  great  confidence  that  it  will  be 

accepted.    But  I  can  well  believe  that  Stoddard 

knew  what,  he  was  saying. 

One  fact  or  incident  I  intend  to  tell  at  the  risk 

inXSS*   8a?   atnd  nrfCk'     Miss  Coolbrith  is  the 
American  who  tore  down  tne    dilapidated  old 
church  at  Hucknall  Torkard  where  Lord  Byron 
i.s  buneJ  and  rebuilt  it  at  a  cost  of  many  thou 
sands.    And  she   did  it  in   this  way     At  the 
time  of  that  most  cruel  insult  to    the  mtehtv 
poet's  memory  she  made  a  wreath  of  laurel  and 
sent    It     by     one    on    a     pilgrimage    to     Bv- 
ron's    tomb.    But  the  vicar   protested  against 
It.  The    bitter  abuse,    however,     in    America 
had  aroused  the  lion  in  the  Briton  and  a  bitter 
clerical  battle  was  fought  in  tho  old  Norman 
church    that    had  stood   there  for  nearly  ?3S 
years.    And  the  matter  was  finally  appealed  to 
the  Bishop  of  Norwich.    The  BishSp  of  Nor 
wich  sent  to  the  King  of  Greece  for  another 
lauret  wreath,  and  so  had  the  two  hung  side  bv 
side  above  the  dust  of  Byron,  who.  had  he  lived    ' 
would  have  been  King  of  the  land  he  died  to  - 
liberate    from    the    Turk.      But    the    King   of  > 
Greece  did  more  than  this,  so  did  the  Bishop  of 
money  P°ured  in  and  the  church 


. 

When   Whittier  brought  out  his  "  Sonjrs  of 
Three  Centuries,"  made   up   of  the  venerable  ' 
Quaker  poet  s  scrapbook  of  more  than  half  a 
century,  the  critics,  us  a  rule,  from  one  end  of 

'  whW°rth    ^  the  a°Kth,?>,  aPPlauded  the  lines. 

When  the  Grass  Shall  Cover  Me."   published 

n  the  book  as    anonymous,   and    pronounced 

CenSiri-s  '  1U  hlS  "  S°n*3  °f  Thr°® 

The  lines  were  written  by  Miss  Coolbrith  for 

Bret  Harte  when  editing  the    Overland     But 

TOM.  D^em  roam  the  wido  worid  ovrer,  loose 
n  Whittier  s  work,  or  do  as  they  would  till 
he  finally  tied  them  up  in  a  wreath  she  was 
reaving  to  be  laid  on  the  grave  of  her  mother 

Stoddard  told  me  that  when  Whittier  found 
ut  whom  the  lines  belonged  to  he  wrote  Miss 

Coolbrith  moL-  cordially,  and  with  the  rest  of 


the  world,  so  far  as  it  knew  her,  became  ner 
ardent  friend. 

The  Pope  of  Rome,  quite  on  the  other  side 
of  the  globe,  sent  to  California  for  a  poet 
[Charles  Warren  Stoddard]  to  train  his  stu 
dents  in  the  refinement  of  letters  when  the 
great  Catholic  University  at  Washington  was 
opened.  Brot  Harte  is  feasted  and  feted  in  all 
Europe.  Yet  tnese  men.  these  two  poets,  will 
euch  earnestly  say  that  Miss  Coolbrith  is  their 
master  iu  the  finer  and  higher  walks  of  litera- 

Arid  must  she  be  left  tied  down  in  that  dusty, 
musty  atmosphere  of  cheap  novel?,  dealinsr  out 
books  to  children  till  she  goes  to  her  grave  in 
tbe  Oakland  Library?  I  reckon  so,  and  it  won't 
be  long  now,  either.  And  when  she  lies  dead, 
my  masters  of  the  University,  the  people  will 
point  u  linger  and  say:  "You,  you  strong 
men,  took  the  best  that  brave,  lone 
woman  had  to  give  and  gave  nothing 
in  return."  I  say  when  this'happens— as  it  will 
happen — don't  excuse  yourselves  by  saying  you 
didn't  think  of  it  in  time  or  you  would  have 
done  better.  You  have  thought  of  it  in  time. 
You  have  heard  something  like  this  before,  and 
you  may  hear  much  that  is  like  it  again.  That 
is  all.  Except  that  I  should  line  to  say  all  this 
is  said  without  her  knowledge,  much  less  her 
consent,  and  I  take  the  risk  here,  not  only  of 
tbe  enmity  of  evary  man  in  the  ereat  club  that 
has  made  her  a  life  member  and  named  her  its 
patron  saint,  but  I  take  the  risk  especially  of 
her  great  displeasure,  though  I  am  right,  and 
that  ends  it. 

In  conclusion,  the  only  criticism  I  care  to 
offer  on  her  work  is  tbe  same  that  Lord  Byron 
made  on  Campbell's,  '-There  is  too  little  of  it." 
This  is  perhaps  because  of  her  hard  life  of  toil 
In  the  library. 

WHAT   INA    COOLBKITH    CANNOT   DO. 

Joaquin  Miller  refers  to  the  friendship  of 
Whittier  for  Miss  Coolbrith.  Whittier 
might  be  amusing  to  the  Trustees;  he  is 
dead,  too.  His  friendly  letters  of  appre 
ciation  of  the  work  of  a  writing  comrade 
are  kept  under  lock  and  key  by  the  lady  to 
whom  they  were  written,  because  she  is  re 
pardful  of  the  request  that  his  private  let 
ters  should  not  be  given  for  all  to  read 


The  Trustees  might  have  a  holiday  of  laugh 
if  they  knew  that  when  Ina  Coolbrith 
visited  the  venerable  poet  in  his  home  he 
greeted  her  by  reciting  one  of  her  owa 
poems — her  "California" — which  he  re 
membered  even  better  than  she. 

The  jokers  might  have  enjoyed  the  Whit 
tier  evening,  at  which  recently  Miss  Cool- 
brith's  poem  upon  her  deai  "literary 
friend"  was  read.  When  the  verses  had 
been  said  the  Rev.  Charles  W.  Wendte 
showed  a  sprig  of  yew  he  had  plucked, 
from  the  grave  of  Wordsworth  during  his 
trip  abroad.  He  said  he  had  promised  to 
himself  he  would  give  that  sprig  to  the 
first  poet  he  should  meet  in  America,  and 
then  he  handed  it  to  Miss  Coolbrith. 

Ana  Ina  Coolbrith  is  not  to  be  "left  tied 
down  in  that  dusty,  musty  atmosphere"  of 
the  library,  where  for  eighteen  years  she 
has  earned  daily  bread  for  herself  and 
others  in  that  "  hard  life  of  toil." 

Bowman,  Cumminsrs.  Apponyi,  Shinn, 
Miller,  Stoddard,  Bierce,  Whittier,  Long 
fellow — they  say  what  Ina  Coolbrith  has 
done.  An  Osgood,  a  McKinnon,  a  Rabe,  a 
Melvin  and  a  Tyrrell,  one  of  whom  asked 
"What  has  Ina  Coolbrith  done?"  have 
elected  what  she  shall  not  do. 

Suppose  Ina  Coolbrith,  because  of  this 
reward  fore  ghteen  years  of  service,  should 
take  herself  from  Oakland  and  from  Cali 
fornia  altogether ! 

Who  would  be  the  loser? 


PERFECT   DAY, 


AND  OTHER 'POEMS. 


BY 


INA     D.     COOLBRITH. 


AUTHOR  S    SPECIAL    SUBSCRIPTION    EDITION. 


THB 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

1881. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1881, 
BY  INA  D.  COOLBRITH, 

/*?;v 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


John  H.  Carmany  &  Co.,  Printers, 
San  Francisco.  Cal. 


I  [If 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY     MOTHER: 

IN    WHOSE     LIVING     HANDS     I     ONCE     HOPED    TO     PLACE 
THIS    LITTLE    VOLUME,   I    NOW    DEDICATE    WHAT 
EVER   OF   WORTH    IT    MAY    CONTAIN,    WITH 
ALL    REVERENCE    AND    LOVE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

A  PERFECT  DAY 9 

IN  BLOSSOM  TIME  " 12 

A  HOPE  7        .         . !4 

AN  ANSWER r6 

LONGING *  .        .18 

Two     .                 .         .^       .....  21 

IN  TIME  OF  FALLING  LEAVES       ....  22 

MY  "CLOTH  OF  GOLD"     .                 .         .         .  25 

WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME          .         .  30 

THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF 32 

AT  SET  OF  SUN 34 

"To- MORROW  is  TOO  FAR  AWAY"         .         .  36 

THE  YEARS 38 

IF  ONLY 40 

SAILED 42 

NOT  YET 44 

"WHILE  LILIES  BUD   AND  BLOW"        ...  46 


yi  CONTENTS. 

CALIFORNIA         ...  49 

How  LOOKED  THE  EARTH  ?           ....  60 

LOVE  IN  LITTLE 63 

No  MORE 65 

WITHHELD 67 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  WIND   ....  70 

A  FANCY     ....  75 
CUPID  KISSED  ME                                                     -77 

SUMMER  PAST 81 

WITH  A  WREATH  OF  LAUREL      .                          .  84 

OWNERSHIP 

IN  THE  POUTS 90 

SIESTA 92 

IN  MEMORIAM  —  Hon.  B.  P.  Avery                          .  94 

Two  PICTURES 96 

LONELINESS     ....  .100 

BESIDE  THE  DEAD     ....  101 

THE  ROAD  TO  SCHOOL 102 

WHO  KNOWETH  ? 107 

MARAH     .........  108 

THE  COMING        .        .        .        .        .   •     .  1 1 1 

REBUKE   .        .        .        .        .        .        .  .114 

DISCIPLINE                          116 


CONTENTS.  vii 

AT  PEACE ny 

UNGATHERED no 

LA  FLOR  DEL  SALVADOR 122 

AFTER  THE  WINTER  RAIN         .        .        .         .  124. 

OBLIVION I26 

QUESTION  AND  ANSWER ^o 

To   DAY'S  SINGING 132 

FRUITIONLESS I35 

THE  FADED  FLOWER ^ 

DAISIES         .         .         .        .                 .        .         _  j^ 

"ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE"           ....  140 

MEADOW -LARKS I42 

I  CAX  NOT  COUNT  MY  LIFE  A  Loss      .        .         .144 

FROM  LIVING  WATERS        .        .        .        .  146 

IN  ADVERSITY l^ 

SUMMONS l~y 

SUFFICIENT j-^ 

A  PRAYER r62 

THE  BROOK ^4 

AN  EMBLEM ^ 

FORGOTTEN jgo 

CHRISTMAS  EVE           .        .        .        ...  170 

FULFILLMENT    .        .        


Though  the  dear  tasks  whicli  once  I  knew 
I  know  no  more,  it  ijet  is  mine, 

Ere  I  am  lain  where  tliou  art  laid, 
To  place  this  wreath  of  rose  and  rue 
Upon  thy  memory's  sacred  shrine, 
0,  thou  beloved  Shade! 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 


A   PERFECT   DAY. 

I   WILL  be  glad  to  -  day  :   the  sun 

Smiles  all  adown  the  land  ; 
The  lilies  lean  along  the  way  ; 

Serene  on  either  hand, 
The    full  -  blown    roses,    red    and 

white, 
In  perfect  beauty  stand. 


The  mourning  -  dove  within  the  woods 

Forgets,  nor  longer  grieves  ; 
A  light  wind  lifts  the  bladed  corn, 

And  ripples  the  ripe  sheaves; 
2 


10  A    PERFECT    DAY. 

High  overhead  some  happy  bird 
Sings  softly  in  the  leaves. 

The  butterflies  flit  by,  and  bees  ; 

A  peach  falls  to  the  ground  ; 
The  tinkle  of  a  bell  is  heard 

From  some  far  pasture  -  mound  ; 
The  crickets  in  the  warm,  green  grass 

Chirp  with  a  softened  sound. 

The  sky  looks  down  upon  the  sea, 

Blue,  with  not  anywhere 
The  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud  ; 

The  sea  looks  up  as  fair  — 
So  bright  a  picture  on  its  breast 

As  if   it  smiled  to  wear. 

A  day  too  glad  for  laughter  —  nay, 


A    PERFECT    DAY.  11 

Too  glad  for  happy  tears  ! 
The  fair  earth  seems  as  in  a  dream 

Of   immemorial  years  : 
Perhaps  of   that  far  morn  when  she 

Sang  with  her  sister  spheres. 

It  may  be  that  she  holds  to   day 

Some  sacred  Sabbath  feast : 
It  may  be  that  some   patient  soul 

Has  entered  to  God's  rest, 
For  whose  dear  sake  He  smiles  on  us. 

And  all  the  day  is  blest. 


1/2  IN    BLOSSOM    TIME. 


IN   BLOSSOM   TIME. 


T  T'S  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 

To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing  ! 
To  sine1  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 


In  the  balm  and  the  blossoming. 


Sing  loud,  0  bird  in  the  tree  ; 

0  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey  -  bees,  blacken  the  clover  beds 

There  are  none  of   you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind, 
Laugh  low,  with  the  wind  at  play  ; 

And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul   away  ! 


IX    BLOSSOM    TIME.  13 

For  O  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair  — 

And  O  but  the  world  is  sweet  ! 
I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossoming  mold, 

And'  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak, 

I  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim, 
That   th'   lips  of   the  blossom,   more  pure   and 
meek, 

May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 

Then  sing  in  the  hedgerow  green,  O  thrush, 

O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue  : 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King  may  hear, 

And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you  ! 


A    HOPE. 


A   HOPE. 

TT  befell  me  on  a  day  — 

Long'  ago  ;    ah,  long  ago  ! 
When  my  life  was  in  its  May, 
In  the  May -month  of  the  year. 

All  the  orchards  were  like  snow 
With  pink  -  flushes  there  and  here  ; 
And  a  bird  sang,  building  near, 
And  a  bird  sang  far  away, 
Where  the  early  twilight  Iny. 

Long  ago !   ah.  long  ago  ! 
Youth's  sweet  May  passed  quite  away 
May  that  never  more  is  May  ! 

Yet  I  hear  the  nightingale 


A    HOPE. 


Singing  far  adown  the  vale 
Where  the  early  twilight  lies, 

Singing  sad,  and  sweet,  and  strong  : 

And  I  wonder  if  the  song 
Mav  be  heard  in  Paradise  ! 


15 


1()  AN    ANSWER. 


AN   ANSWER. 

rilHE  wind  was  very  sad  among  the  branches, 

The  moon  had  hid  its  light ; 
I  threw7  my  window  open  to  the  darkness, 
And  looked  out  011  the  night ; 

And  thought  of  all  the  dear  old  times  together, 

Days  sweet  for  her  sweet  sake, 
And  all  I  lost  in  losing  her  ;   till,  thinking, 

My  heart  seemed  like  to  break. 

And  O,  I  said,  if  I  might  have  some  token 
She  is,  and  yet  is  mine, 


AN    ANSWER. 


17 


Though   but  a  wind -tossed  leaf,  rny  soul  would 

take  it. 
And  bless  it,  for  the  sign. 

And  lo!  a  little  wind  sighed  through  the  branches, 

The  moon  shone  on  the  land, 
And  cool  and  moist  with  the  iiight  dew,  a  leaflet 

Fluttered  against  my  hand  ! 


18 


LONGING. 


LONGING. 

S~\   FOOLISH  wisdom  sought  in  books  ! 
O  aimless  fret  of  household  tasks  ! 
O  chains  that  bind  the  hand  and  mind  - 
A  fuller  life  my  spirit  asks  ! 

For  there  the  grand  hills,  summer -crowned, 
Slope  greenly  downward  to  the  seas ; 

One  hour  of  rest  upon  their  breast 
Were  worth  a  year  of  days  like  these. 

Their  cool,  soft  green  to  ease  the  pain 
Of  eyes  that  ache  o'er  printed  words  ; 

This  weary  voice  —  the  city's  voice, 

Lulled  in  the  sound  of  bees  and  birds. 


LONGING.  19 

For  Eden's  life  within  me  stirs, 

And  scorns  the  shackles  that  I  wear  ; 

The  man -life  grand:    pure   soul,  strong  hand, 
The  limb  of  steel,  the  heart  of  air  ! 

And  I  could  kiss,  with  longing  wild, 

Earth's  dear  brown  bosom,  loved  so  much, 

A  grass -blade  fanned  across  my  hand, 
Would  thrill  me  like  a  lover's  touch. 

The  trees  would  talk  with  me  ;    the  flowers 
Their  hidden  meanings  each  make  known  — 

The  olden  lore  revived  once  more, 

When  man's  and  nature's  heart  were  one  ! 

And  as  the  pardoned  pair  might  come 
Back  to  the  garden  God  first  framed, 


20  LONGING. 

And  hear  Him  call  at  even  -  fall, 
And  answer,   "Here  am  I,"  unshamed — 

So  I,  from  out  these  toils,  wherein 

The  Eden -faith  grows  stained  and  dim, 

Would  walk,  a  child,  through  nature's  wild, 
And  hear  His  voice  and  answer  Him. 


TWO.  21 


TWO. 


/~\NE   sang  all  day,  more  merry  than  the  lark 

That  mounts  the  morning  skies  : 
One  silent  sat,  and  lifted  patient  eyes. 


One  heart  kept  happy  time,  from  dawn  to  dark, 

With  all  glad  things  that  be  : 
One,  listless,  throbbed  alone  to  memory. 

To  one  all  blessed  knowledge  was  revealed, 

And  love  made  clear  the  way  : 
One  thirsted,  asked,  and  still  was  answered  nay. 

To  one,  a  glad,  brief  day,  that  slumber  sealed 

And  kept  inviolate  : 
To  one,  long  years,  that  only  knew  to  wait. 


22  IN    TIME    OF    FALLING    LEAVES. 


IN   TIME   OF   FALLING  LEAVES. 


T 


I  HE  summer  rose  is  dead  ; 
The  sad  leaves,  withered, 

Strew  ankle  -  deep  the  pathways  to  our  tread  : 
Dry  grasses  mat  the  plain, 
And  drifts  of  blossom  slain  ; 
And  day  and  night  the  wind  is  like  a  pain. 

No  nightingale  to  sing 

In  green  boughs  listening, 
Through  balmy  twilight  hushes  of   the  spring 

No  thrush,  no  oriole 

In  music  to  out -roll 
The  little  golden  raptures  of   his  soul. 


IN  TIME  OF  FALLING  LEAVES.  23 

O  royal  summer  -  reign  ! 

When  will  you  come  again, 
Bringing  the  happy  birds  across  the  main  ? 

O  blossoms  !    when  renew 

Your  pretty  garbs,  and  woo 
Your  waiting,  wild  bee  lovers  back  to  you? 

For  lo,  my  heart  is  numb  ; 

For  lo,  my  heart  is  dumb, 
Is  silent  till  the  birds  and  blossoms  come  ! 

A  flower,  that  lieth  cold 

Under  the  wintry  mold, 
Waiting   the  warm  spring  -  breathing  to  unfold. 

O  swallow  !   all  too  slow 
Over  the  waves  you  go, 
Dipping  your  light  wings  in  their  sparkling  flow. 


24  IN    TIME    OF    FALLING    LEAVES. 

Over  the  golden  sea, 
O  swallow,  flying  free, 
Fly  swiftly  with  the  summer  back  to  me  ! 


MY  "CLOTH  OF  GOLD."  25 


UNIVERSITY 


MY   "CLOTH   OF   GOLD." 

r\  BUT  the  wind  is  keen, 

And  the  sky  is  dull  as  lead  ! 
If  only  leaves  were  brown, 

Were  only  withered  and  dead, 
Perhaps  I  might  not  frown, 

However  the  storm  might  beat; 
But  to  see  their  delicate  green 

Tossing  in  wind  and  rain, 

Whirling  in  lane  and  street, 
Trampled  in  mud  and  dirt  — 

Alive  to  the  winter  pain, 
To  the  sting:  and  the  hurt  ! 


MY  "CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

I  wish  they  all  were  hid 
In  a  fleecy  coverlid  ; 
I  wish  I  could  bury  the  rose 
Under  the  northern  snows, 
And  make  the  land  take  off 
The  purple  and  red  and  buff, 

And  flamy  tints  that  please 
Her  tropical  Spanish  taste, 

And  mantle  her  shapeliness, 

Just  once,  in  the  delicate  dress 
Of  her  sisters,  fairer  faced, 

Over  the  seas. 

If  but  for  a  single  day 

This  vivid,  incessant  green 

Might  vanish  quite  away, 
And  never  a  leaf  be  seen ; 


MY  "CLOTH  OF  GOLD."  27 

And  woods  be  brown  and  sere, 
And  flowers  disappear  : 
If  only  I  might  not  see 
Forever  the  fruit  on  the  tree, 

The  rose  on  its  stem  ! 
For  spring  is  sweet,  and  summer 
Ever  a  blithe  new-comer  — 

But  one  tires  even  of   them  ! 

You  were  pleasant  to  behold, 

"When  days  were  warm  and  bland, 
My  beautiful  "Cloth  of  Gold," 

My  rose  of  roses,  nursed 

With  careful,  patient  hand; 

So  sunny  and  content, 
"With  butterflies  about  you, 

And  bees  that  came  and  went, 


28  MY  "CLOTH  or  GOLD.' 

And  could  not  do  without  you  : 

But  better  to  die  at  first, 
With  the  earliest  blossom  born, 
Than  to  live  so  crumpled  and  torn. 
So  dripping  and  forlorn. 


Better  that  you  should  be 
Safe  housed  and  asleep 

Under  the  tough  brown  bark, 

Like  your  kindred  over  the  sea  ; 
Nor  know  if  the  day  be  drear, 
Nor  heed  if  the  sky  be  dark, 

If  it  rain  or  snow. 

But  ah  !   to  be  captive  here, 

The  live -long,  dragging  year, 

To  the  skies  that  smile  and  weep  ;; 


MY  "CLOTH  OF  GOLD."  29 

The  skies  that  thrill  and  woo  you, 

That  torture  and  undo  you, 
That  lure  and  hold  you  so  — 
And  will  not  let  you  go  ! 


30  WHEN    THE    GRASS    SHALL    COVER    ME. 


WHEN  THE  GEASS  SHALL  COVEE  ME. 

"\TTHEN  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 

Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying; 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer -blooms  nor  winter -snows,. 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing  : 
Close  above  me  as  you  pass, 
You  will  say,   "How  kind  she  was,3> 
You  will  say,   "How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Holdeu  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom ; 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  sing, 
Nevermore,  for  anything, 


WHEN    THE    GRASS    SHALL    COVER    ME.  31 

You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 
Sweet  small  voices,  odorous, 
Tender  pleaders  in  my  cause, 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was  — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me  ! 
Ah,  beloved,  in  my  sorrow 
Very  patient,  I  can  wait, 
Knowing  that,  or  soon   or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow  : 

When  your  heart  will  moan:  "Alas! 
Now  I  know  how  true  she  was; 
Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was  " — 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me  ! 


32  THE  MOTHER'S  GRIEF. 


THE   MOTHEE'S   GBIEF. 

OO  fair  the  sun  rose  jester -morn, 

The  mountain  cliffs  adorning  : 
The  golden  tassels  of   the  corn 

Danced  in  the  breath  of  morning ; 
The  cool,  clear  stream  that  runs  before, 

Such  happy  words  was  saying, 
And  in  the  open  cottage  door 

My  pretty  babe  was  playing. 
Aslant  the  sill  a  sunbeam  lay  : 

I  laughed  in  careless  pleasure, 
To  see  his  little  hand  essay 

To  grasp  the  shining  treasure. 


THE    MOTHER  S    GRIEF. 

To-d?iy  no  shafts  of   golden  name 

Across  the  sill  are  lying ; 
To-day  I  call  my  baby's  name, 

And  hear  no  lisped  replying ; 
To-day— ah,  baby  mine,  to-day  — 

God  holds  thee  in  His  keeping  ! 
And  yet  I  weep,  as  one  pale  ray 

Breaks  in  upon  thy  sleeping  — 
I  weep  to  see  its  shining  bands 

Reach,  with  a  fond  endeavor, 
To  where  the  little  restless  hands 

Are  crossed  in  rest  forever ! 


34  AT    SET    OF    SUN. 


AT   SET   OF   SUN, 

A    LONG  you  purple  rim  of   hills, 

How  bright  the  sunset  glory  lies  ! 
Its  radiance  spans  the  western  skies, 
And  all  the  slumbrous  valley  fills. 


Broad  shafts  of    lucid  crimson,  blent 
With  lustrous  pearl  in  massed  white, 
And  one  great  spear  of  amber  light 

That  flames  o'er  half  the  firmament. 

Vague,  murmurous  sounds  the  breezes  bear; 
A  thousand  subtle  breaths  of   balm, 


AT    SET    OF    SUN.  35 

Blown  shoreward  from  the  isles  of  calm, 
Float  in  upon  the  tranced  air. 

And,  muffling  all  its  giant  roar, 
The  restless  waste  of   waters,  rolled 
To  one  broad  sea  of   liquid  gold, 

Moves  singing  up  the  shining  shore  ! 


36  "TO-MORROW  is  TOO  FAR  AWAY." 


•TO-MORROW   IS   TOO   FAE   AWAY." 

mO -MORROW  is  too  far  away  ! 
A  bed  of  spice  the  garden  is, 

Nor  bud  nor  blossom  that  we  miss ; 
The  roses  tremble  on  the  stem, 

The  violets  and  anemones  : 
Why  should  we  wait  to  gather  them? 
Their  bloom  and  balm  are  ours  to-day, 
To  -  morrow  —  who  can  say  ? 

To -morrow  is  too  far  away. 

Why  should  we  slight  the  joy  complete, 
The  flower  open  at  our  feet? 


"TO-MORROW  is  TOO  FAR  AWAY."  37 

For  us  to-day  the  robin  sings, 

His  curved  flight  the  swallow  wings, 
For  us  the  happy  moments  stay. 

Stay  yet,  nor  leave  us  all  too  fleet ! 

For  life  is  sweet,  and  youth  is  sweet, 
And  love  —  ah,  love  is  sweet  to-day, 
To-morrow  —  who  can  say? 


-38  THE    YEARS. 


THE   YEARS. 

TTTHAT  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  bring* 
Green  leaves  to  crown  them  King? 

Blown,  barren  sands,  the  thistle,  and  the  brier, 
Dead  hope,  and  mocked  desire, 

And  sorrow,  vast  and  pitiless  as  the  sea  : 
These  are  their  gifts  to  me. 


What  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  love 

And  sing  the  praise  thereof? 
Perhaps,  the  lark's  clear  carol  wakes  with  morn, 

And  winds,  amid  the  corn, 
•Clash  fairy  cymbals ;    but  I  miss  the  joys, 

Missing  the  tender  voice  — 


THE    YEAKS.  39 

Sweet  as  a  throstle's  after  April  rain  — 
That  may  not  sing  again. 

"What  do  I  owe  the  years,  that  I  should  greet 

Their  bitter,  and  not  sweet, 
With  wine,  and  wit,  and  laughter?     Rather  thrust 

The  wine  -  cup  to   the  dust ! 
What  have  they  brought  to  me,  these  many  years? 

Silence,  and  bitter  tears. 


40  IF    ONLY. 


IF   ONLY. 

TF  only  in  my  dreams  I  once  might  see 
Thy  face  !   though  thou  shouldst  stand 
With  cold,  unreaching  hand, 
Nor  vex  thy  lips  to  break 

The  silence,  with  a  word  for  my  love's  sake 
Nor  turn  to  mine  thine  eyes, 

Serene  with  the  long  peace  of    Paradise, 
Yet,  henceforth,  life  would  be 

Made  sweet,  not  wholly  bitter  unto  me. 

If  only  I  might  know  for  verity, 
That  when  the  light  is  done 
Of   this  world's  sun, 
And  that  unknown,  long -sealed 


IF    ONLY.  41 

To  sound  and  sight,  is  suddenly  revealed, 
That  thine  should  be  the  first  dear  voice  thereof, 
And  thy  dear  face  the  first  —  O  love,  my  love! 

Then  coming  death  would  be 
Sweet,  ah,  most  sweet,  not  bitter  unto  me  ! 
4 


42  SAILED. 


SAILED. 

/  ^   SHINING,  sapphire  sea  ! 

From  thy  bosom  put  away 
Every  vexing  thought  to  -  day  ; 
Smile  through  all  thy  dimpling  spray 
All  that  earth  contains  for  me, 
Of   love,  and  truth,  and  purity, 
Trust  I  unto  thee  ! 

O  foam -necked,  azure  sea! 
Let  thy  calm,  untroubled  waves, 

By  the  softest  gales  caressed, 
Rise  and  fall  like  love -beats  in 

Her  timid  maiden  breast ; 


SAILED.  43 

Let  thy  dreamiest  melodies 
Cradle  her  to  rest. 

O  wild,  white,  mystic  sea  ! 
Let  thy  strong  upholding  arm 

Tender  as  a  lover's  be  ; 
Let  no  breath  of  rude  alarm 

Mar  her  heart's  tranquillity; 
Through  the  sunshine,  past  the  storm, 
Bear  her  safe  from  every  harm, 

Once  again  to  me  ! 


44  NOT    YET. 


NOT  YET. 

"VTOT  yet  from  the  yellow  west, 

Fade,  light  of   the  autumn  day 
Ear  lies  my  haven  of   rest, 

And  rough  the  way. 
She  has  waited  long,  my  own  ! 
And  the  night  is  dark  and  drear 

To  meet  alone. 

Not  yet,  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 
Eall,  rose  of   the  wayside  thorn, 

Eair  and  most  sweet  of   all 
The  summer -born. 


NOT    YET.  45 

But  O,  for  my  rose  that  stands, 
And  waits,  through  the  lessening  year, 
My  gathering  hands  ! 

Fail  not,  O  my  life,  so  fast  — 
Fail  not  till  we  shall  have  met : 

Soon,  soon  will  thy  pulse  be  past, 
But  oh,  not  yet !  — 

Till  her  fond  eyes  on  me  shine, 

And  the  heart  so  dear,  so  dear, 
Beats  close  to  mine. 


46  "WHILE  LILIES  BUD  AND  BLOW. 


"WHILE   LILIES   BUD   AND   BLOW." 

"TTTHILE  lilies  bud  and  blow, 

While  roses  grow, 
And  trees  wave  greenly  in  the  sun  — 

Wave  greenly  to  and  fro ; 

And  ring-doves  coo  and  coo, 

And  skies  drop  dew, 
And  th'  throstle  pipes  above  the  nest 

His  wee  mate  broods  upon, 

How  can  one  choose  but  sing 

Of   joy,  love  —  every  thing! 

While  the  north  wind  sobs  and  grieves, 
While  the  trees  drop  leaves, 


"WHILE  LILIES  BUD  AND  BLOW."  47 

And  scentless,  budless  meadows  lie 
Bare  to  the  beating  rain ; 
And  the  birds  are  grown  and  flown, 

And  the  nests  are  lone, 
And  love,  like  closing  day, 
Grows  cold,  grows  old  and  gray  — 
How  can  one  help  but  sigh, 

While  night  draws  nigh, 
And  darkly  runs  the  river  to  the  main  ! 

A  little  plot  where  showers 

May  bring  forth  flowers  — 
Poppies,  rnandragora,  and  all  sweet  balm  ! 
Ah  me  !   who  can  but  smile  ? 
Only  a  little  while, 
And  hearts  forget  to  ache, 

And  eyes  to  wrake ; 


48  "WHILE  LILIES  BUD  AND  BLOW." 

The  grass  clasps  softly  velvet  palm  with  palm 

Above  the  quiet  breast, 
And  hope,  and  God's  wThite  angels,  know  the  rest! 


CALIFORNIA.  4(J 


CALIFOENIA. 

COMMENCEMENT     POEM,     WEITTEN     FOE    THE    UNIVERSITY 
OF    CALIFOENIA,    JULY,    1871. 

~T"\TAS  it  the  sigh  and  shiver  of   the  leaves? 

Was  it  the  murmur  of   the  meadow  brook, 
That  in  and  out  the  reeds  and  water -weeds 
Slipped  silverly,  and  on  their  tremulous  keys 
Uttered  her  many  melodies?     Or  voice 
Of   the  far  sea,  red  with  the  sunset  gold, 
That  sang  within  her  shining  shores,  and  sang 
Within  the  Gate,  that  in  the  sunset  shone 
A  gate  of  fire  against  the  outer  vvorld[? 

,  For  ever  as  I  turned  the  magic  page 
Of   that  old  song  the  old,  blind  singer  sang- 


50  CALIFORNIA. 

Unto  the  world,  when  it  and  song  were  young — 

The  ripple  of   the  reeds,  or  odorous, 

Soft  sigh  of   leaves,  or  voice  of   the  far  sea  — 

A  mystical,  low  murmur,  tremulous 

Upon  the  wind,  came  in  with  musk  of   rose, 

The  salt  breath  of  the  waves,  and  far,  faint  smell 

Of   laurel  up  the  slopes  of   Tamalpais 


"Am.  I  less  fair,  am  I  Jess  fair  than  these, 

Daughters  of  far-off  seas? 

Daughters  of   far-off  shores  —  bleak,  over -blown 
With  foam  of  fretful  tides,  with  Avail  and  moan 
Of  waves,  that  toss  wild  hands,  that  clasp  and  beat 
"Wild,  desolate  hands  above  the  lonely  sands, 
Printed  no  more  with  pressure  of  their  feet : 
That  chase  no  more  the  light  feet  flying  swift 


CALIFORNIA.  51 

Up  golden  sands,  nor  lift 
Foam  fingers  white  unto  their  garment  hem, 
And  flowing  hair  of  them. 

"For  these   are  dead:  the  fair,  great  queens  are 

dead  ! 
The  long  hair's  gold  a  dust  the  wind  bloweth 

"Wherever  it  may  list ; 

The  curved  lips,  that  kissed 
Heroes  and  kings  of  men,  a  dust  that  breath, 
Nor  speech,  nor  laughter,  ever  quickeneth ; 

And  all  the  glory  sped 

From  the  large,  marvelous  eyes,  the  light  whereof 
Wrought  wonder  in  their  hearts — desire,  and  love! 

And  wrought  not  any  good  : 
But  strife,  and  curses  of  the  gods,  and  flood, 

And  lire  and  battle  -  death  ! 


52  CALIFORNIA. 

Am  I  less  fair,  less  fair, 
Because  that  my  hands  bear 
Neither  a  sword,  nor  any  flaming  brand 
To  blacken  and  make  desolate  my  land, 
But  on  my  brows  are  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 
And  in  mine  arms  a  dove  ! 

"Sea-born  and  goddess,  blossom  of  the  foam,. 
Pale  Aphrodite,  shadowy  as  a  mist 

Not  any  sun  hath  kissed  ! 

Tawny  of  limb  /  roam, 
The  dusks  of  forests  dark  within  my  hair; 

The  far  Yosemite, 
For  garment  and  for  covering  of  me, 

Wove  the  white  foam  and  mist, 
The  amber  and  the  rose  and  amethyst 
Of  her  wild  fountains,  shaken  loose  in  air. 


CALIFORNIA.  53 

And  I  am  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea  : 

Strong  with  the  strength  of   my  great  hills,  and 

calm 

With  calm  of  the  fair  sea,  whose  billowy  gold 
Girdles  the  land  whose  queen  and  love  I  am  ! 

Lo  !   am  I  less  than  thou, 
That  with  a  sound  of  lyres,  and  harp -playing, 

Not  any  voice  doth  sing 
The  beauty  of  mine  eyelids  and  my  brow? 
Nor  Irymn  in  all  my  fair  and  gracious  ways, 

And  lengths  of  golden  days, 
The  measure  and  the  music  of  my  praise? 

"Ah,  what  indeed  is  this 

Old  land  beyond  the  seas,  that  ye  should  miss 
For  her  the  grace  and  majesty  of  mine? 

Are  not  the  fruit  and  vine 


54  CALIFORNIA. 

Fair  on  my  hills,  and  in  my  vales  the  rose? 

The  palm-tree  and  the  pine 
Strike  hands  together  under  the  same  skies 

In  every  wind  that  blows. 

What  clearer  heavens  can  shine 
Above  the  land  whereon  the  shadow  lies 
Of  her  dead  glory,  and  her  slaughtered  kings. 

And  lost,  evanished  gods? 

Upon  my  fresh  green  sods 
No  king  has  walked  to  curse  and  desolate  :  , 
But  in  the  valleys  Freedom  sits  and  sings, 

And  on  the  heights  above; 
Upon  her  brows  the  leaves  of  olive  boughs, 

And  in  her  arms  a  dove ; 
And  the  great  hills  are  pure,  undesecrate, 

"White  with  their  snows  untrod, 
And  mighty  with  the  presence  of  their  God  ! 


CALIFORNIA.  55 

"Hearken,  how  many  years 
I  sat  alone,  I  sat  alone  and  heard 

Only  the  silence  stirred 

By  wind  and  leaf,  by  clash  of   grassy  spears, 
And  singing  bird  that  called  to  singing  bird. 

Heard  but  the  savage  tongue 
Of   my  brown  savage  children,  that  among 
The  hills  and  valleys  chased  the  buck  and  doe, 

And  round  the  wigwam  fires 
Chanted  wild  songs  of   their  wild  savage  sires, 
And  danced  their  wild,  weird  dances  to  and  fro. 
And  wrought  their  beaded  robes  of   buffalo. 

Day  following  upon  day, 
Saw  but  the  panther  crouched  upon  the  limb, 

Smooth  serpents,  swift  and  slim, 
Slip  through  the  reeds  and  grasses,  and  the  bear 

Crush  through  his  tangled  lair 


56  CALIFORNIA. 

Of   chapparal,  upon  the  startled  prey  ! 

"Listen,  how  I  have  seen 

Flash  of  strange  fires  in  gorge  and  black  ravine ; 
Heard  the  sharp  clang  of  steel,  that  came  to  drain 

The  mountain's  golden  vein  — 
And    laughed   and  sang,   and   sang   and   laughed 

again, 
Because  that  'now,'  I  said,  'I  shall  be  known! 

I  shall  not  sit  alone  ; 
But  reach  my  hands  unto  my  sister  lands  ! 

And  they?     Will   they  not  tarn 
Old,  wondering  dim  eyes  to  me,  and  yearn  - 

Aye,  they  will  yearn,  in  sooth, 
To  my  glad  beauty,  and  my  glad  fresh  youth  ! ' 

"What  matters  though  the  morn 


CALIFORNIA.  57 

Redden  upon  my  singing  fields  of   corn  ! 
"What  matters  though  the  wind's  unresting  feet 

Ripple  the  gold  of  wheat, 

And  my  vales  run  with  wine, 

And  on  these  hills  of  mine 
The  orchard  boughs  droop  heavy  with  ripe  fruit? 

When  with  nor  sound  of  lute 
Nor  lyre,  doth  any  singer  chant  and  sing 

Me,  in  my  life's  fair  spring  : 
The  matin  song  of  me  in  my  young  day? 
But  all  my  lays  and  legends  fade  away 
From  lake  and  mountain  to  the  farther  hem 
Of  sea,  and  there  be  none  to  gather  them. 

"  Lo  !    I  have  waited  long! 
How  longer  yet  must  my  strung  harp  be  dumb, 

Ere  its  great  master  come? 
5 


58  CALIFORNIA. 

Till  the  fair  singer  comes  to  wake  the  strong,. 
Rapt  chords  of  it  unto  the  new,  glad  song  ! 

Him  a  diviner  speech 

My  song-birds  wait  to  teach  : 

The  secrets  of  the  field 

My  blossoms  will  not  yield 

To  other  hands  than  his ; 

And,  lingering  for  this, 
My  laurels  lend  the  glory  of  their  boughs 

To  crown  no  narrower  brows. 
For  on  his  lips  must  wisdom  sit  with  youth ;. 
And  in  his  eyes,  and  on  the  lids  thereof, 

The  light  of   a  great  love  — 

And  on  his  forehead,  truth  !" 

Was  it  the  wind,  or  the  soft  sigh  of   leaves,. 
Or  sound  of   singing  waters?     Lo,  I  looked,. 


CALIFORNIA.  59 

And  saw  the  silvery  ripples  of   the  brook, 
The  fruit  upon  the  hills,  the  waving  trees, 
And  mellow  fields  of  harvest ;    saw  the  Gate 
Burn  in  the  sunset :   the  thin  thread  of  mist 
Creep  white  across  the  Saucelito  hills  ; 
Till  the  day  darkened  down  the  ocean  rim, 
The  sunset  purple  slipped  from  Tamalpais, 
And  bay  and  sky  were  bright  with  sudden  stars ! 


60 


HOW  LOOKED  THE  EARTH? 

TTQW  looked  the  eartli  unto  His  eyes, 

So  lately  closed  on  Paradise? 
Clad  all  in  purity 
Of   snowy  raiment,  as  a  bride 
That  waiteth  for  her  lord  to  see  — 
That  waiteth  in  her  love  and  pride? 

Was  the  snow  white  on  fields  and  rocks, 
Whereon  the  shepherds  watched  their  flocks 

In  the  mid -winter  night? 

And  saw  the  angel,  clothed  in  white, 
The  heavenly  gates  that  opened  wide, 

In  midst  whereof  was  One 


HOW  LOOKED  THE  EARTH?  61 

They  dared  not  gaze  upon  ! 
Snow  hither,  thither,  and  afar, 
Beneath  the  new,  mysterious  star? 

Snow  upon  Lebanon, 
Whose  cedars  stood,  a  crystal  net 
Of  frost-work,  beautiful  to  see? 

Snow  upon  Olivet  — 
Snow  upon  awful  Calvary? 

Found  He  it  fair  to  look  upon, 
Beneath  the  wooing  of   the  sun  ? 

The  turf  whereon  He  trod, 
Did  he  not  bend  His  glance  to  greet? 
The  daisy  glancing  from   the  sod, 

The  lily  slim  and  tall ; 
The  ferny  banks  of   sheltered   nooks, 
The  singing  voice  within   the  brooks, 


62  HOW  LOOKED  THE  EARTH? 

Eacli  slender  blade  of   grass  that  sprang, 
The  tender  shade  of   leafy  ways, 
Each  little  bird  that  sang 
Its  wee  heart  out  in  praise  — 
I  think  He  found  them  sweet, 
He  knew  and  loved  them  all. 


LOVE    IN    LITTLE.  63 


OF   THE          ~'f      A 

((UNIVERSITY 

<N  PA 


LOVE   IN   LITTLE. 

T)ECAUSE  the  rose  the  bloom  of  blossoms  is, 

And  queenliest  in  beauty  and  in  grace, 
The  violet's  tender  blue  wre  love  no  less, 
Or  daisy,  glancing  up  with  shy,   sweet  face. 

For  all  the  music  which  the  forest  has, 

The  ocean  waves,  that  crash  upon  the  beach, 

Still  would  we  miss  the  whisper  of   the  grass; 
The  hum  of  bees ;  the  brooklet's  silver  speech. 

We  would  not  have  the  timid  wood -thrush  mute 
Because  the  bul-bul  more  divinely  sings, 


64  LOVE    IN    LITTLE. 

Nor  lose  the  scarlet  of  dear  robin's  throat, 
For  all  the  tropics'  flash  of  golden  wings. 

So  do  I  think,  though  weak  we  be,  and  small, 
Yet  is  there  One  whose  care  is  none  the  less  : 

Who  finds,  perchance,  some  grain  of  worth  in  all, 
Or  loves  us  for  our  very  humbleness  ! 


NO    MOKE. 


NO   MORE. 

"VTAY,  then,  what  can  be  done 
When  love  is  flown, 

When  love  has  passed  away? 

Sit  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Thinking  how  near  he  was, 
Thinking  how  dear  he  was, 

That  is  no  more,  to-day! 

How  can  the  day  be  fair 
Love  may  not  share? 

How  day  go  by, 
Hearing  no  fond  words  said, 


NO    MORE. 


With  no  dear  kisses  shed- 
O,  liow  can  love  "be  dead, 
And  yet  not  I! 


WITHHELD.  67 


WITHHELD. 

f  M HEREIN  is  sunlight,  and  sweet  sound  : 

Cool  flow  of   waters,  musical ; 
Soft  stir  of   insect -wings,  and  fall 
Of   blossom -snow  upon  the  ground. 

The  birds  flit  in  and  out  the  trees, 

Their   bright,    sweet  throats  strained  full  with 
song. 

The  flower-beds,  the  summer  long, 
Are  black  and  murmurous  with  bees. 

Th'  unrippled  leaves  hang  faint  with  dew 
In  hushes  of   the  breezeless  morn  • 


68 


WITHHELD. 


At  eventide  the  stars,  new  born, 
And  the  white  moonlight,  glimmer  through. 

Therein  are  all  glad  things  whereof 

Life  holdeth  need  through  changing  years 
Therein  sweet  rest,  sweet  end  of   tears ; 

Therein  sweet  labors,  born  of   love. 

This  is  my  heritage,  mine  own, 

That  alien  hands  from  me  withhold. 
From  barred  windows,  dark  and  cold, 

I  view,  with  heart  that  maketh  moan. 

They  fetter  feet  and  hands;   they  give 
Me  bitter,  thankless  tasks  to  do; 
And,   cruel  wise,  still  feed  anew 

My  one  small  hope,  that  I  may  live. 


WITHHELD.  (59 

And,  that  no  single  pang-  I  miss, 
Lo  !   this  one  little  window -space 
Is  left,  where  through  my  eyes  may  trace 

How  sweeter  than  all  sweet  it  is ! 


70  A    SONG    OF    THE    SUMMER   WIND. 


A   SONG   OF   THE   SUMMER   WIND, 

-QALMILY,  balmily,  summer  wind, 

Sigh  through  the  mountain  passes  ; 
Over  the  sleep  of   the  beautiful  deep, 

Over  the  woods'  green  masses  — 
Hippie  the  grain  of   valley  and  plain, 

And  the  reeds  and  the  river  grasses. 


How  many  songs,  O  summer  wind, 

How  many  songs  you  know 
Of  fair,  sweet  things  in  your  wanderings, 

As  over  the  earth  you  go, 
To  the  Norland  bare  and  bleak,  from  where 

The  red  south  roses  blow. 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SUMMER    WIND.  71 

Where  the  red  south  blossoms  blow,  O  wind, 

(Sing  low  to  me,  low  and  stilly!) 
And  the  golden  green  of   the  citrons  lean 

To  the  white  of  the  saintly  lily; 
Where  the  sun -rays  drowse  in  the  orange  boughs. 

(Sing,  sing,  for  the  heart  grows  chilly!) 
And  the  belted  bee  hangs  heavily 

In  rose  and  daffodilly. 

I  know  a  song,  O  summer  wind, 

A  song  of   a  willow -tree  : 
Soft  as  the  sweep  of   its  fringes  deep 
In  languorous  swoons  of   tropic  noons, 

But  sad  as  sad  can  be  ! 
Yet  I  would  you  might  sing  it,  summer  wind, 

I  would  you  might  sing  it  me. 

(0  tremulous,  musical   murmur  of   leaves! 


72  A    SONG    OF    THE    SUMMER    WIND. 

O  mystical  melancholy 
Of   waves,  that  call  from  the  far  sea-wall!  — 

Shall  I  render  your  meaning  wholly, 
Ere  the  day  shall  wane  to  the  night  again, 

And  the  stars  come,  slowly,  slowly?) 

I  would  you  might  sing  me,  summer  wind, 

A  song  of   a  little  chamber: 
Sing  soft,  sing  low,  how  the  roses  grow, 

And  the  starry  jasmines  clamber; 
Through    the    emerald    rifts    how   the    moonlight 
drifts, 

And  the  sunlight's  mellow  amber. 

Sing  of  a  hand  in  the  fluttering  leaves, 

Like  a  wee  white  bird  in  its  nest : 
Of  a  white  hand  twined  in  the  leaves  to  find 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SUMMER    WIND.  73 

A  bloom  for  the  fair  young  breast ; 
Sing  of   my  love,  my  little  love, 

My  snow-white  dove  in  her  nest, 
As  she  looks  through  the  fragrant  jasmine  leaves 

Into  the  wasting  west. 

Tenderly,  tenderly,  summer  wind, 

With  murmurous  word -caresses, 
O,  wind  of   the  south,  to  her  beautiful  mouth 

Did  you  cling  with  your  balmy  kisses? 
Flutter  and  float  o'er  the  white,  white  throat, 

And  ripple  the  golden  tresses? 

"  The  long  year  groweth  from  green  to  gold,'' 

Saith  the  song  of   the  willow -tree: 
"My  tresses  cover,  my  roots  enfold," 

O,   summer  wind,  sing  it  me  ! 
6 


7d  A    SONG    OF    THE    SUMMER    WIND. 

Lorn  and  dreary,  sad  and  weary, 

As  lovers  that  parted  be  — 
But  sweet  as  the  grace  of  a  fair  young  face 

I  never  a£-ain  may  see  ! 


A    FANCY.  75 


i 


A   FANCY. 

THINK  I  would  not  be 

A  stately  tree, 
Broad -boughed,    with    haughty   crest   that   seeks 

the  sky! 

Too  many  sorrows  lie 

In  years,  too  much  of   bitter  for  the  sweet  ! 
Frost-bite,  and  blast,  and  heat, 
Blind  drought,  cold  rains,  must  all  grow  weari 
some, 

Ere  one  could  put  away, 
Their  leafy  garb  for  aye, 
And  let  death  come. 


76  A    FANCY. 

Rather  this  wayside  flower ! 

To  live  its  happy  hour 
Of    balmy  air,  of    sunshine,  and  of    dew. 
A  sinless  face  held  upward  to  the  blue; 

A  bird -song  sung  to  it, 

A  butterfly  to  flit 

On  dazzling  wings  above  it,  hither,  thither 
A  sweet  surprise  of  life — and  then  exhale 
A  little  fragrant  soul  on  the  soft  gale, 

To  float— ah,   whither! 


CUPID    KISSED    ME.  77 


CUPID   KISSED   ME. 

T   OVE  and  I,  one  summer  day, 

Took  a  walk  together; 
O,  how  beautiful  the  way 

Through  the  blooming-  heather  ! 
Far-off  bells  rang  matin -chimes, 

Birds  sang,  silver -voicing, 
And  our  happy  hearts  beat  time 

To  the  earth's  rejoicing. 
Well- a- day!   ah,  well-a-day! 

Then  pale  grief   had  missed  me, 
And  mirth  and  I  kept  company 

Ere  Cupid  kissed  me  ! 


78  CUPID    KISSED    ME. 

Love  ran  idly  where  he  would, 

Child -like,  all  unheeding; 
I  as  carelessly  pursued 

The  pathway  he  was  leading  : 
Till  upon  the  shadowed  side 

Of  a  cool,  swift  river, 
Where  the  sunbeams  smote  the  tide, 

Goldenly  a  -  quiver — 
Well  -  a  -  day  !   ah ,  well  -  a  -  day  ! 

"Love,"  I  cried,   "come  rest  thee." 
Ah,  but  heart  and  I  were  gay 

Ere  Cupid  kissed  rue  ! 

Shadows  of  a  summer  cloud 
Fell  on  near  and  far  land ; 

Fragrantly  the  branches  bowed 
Every  leafy  garland ; 


CUPID    KISSED    ME.  79 

While  with  shining  head  at  rest, 

Next  my  heart  reclining, 
Love's  white  arms,  with  soft  caress, 

Koimd  my  neck  were  twining. 
Well  -  a  -  day  !    ah ,  well  -  a  -  day  ! 

Love  who  can  resist  thee? 
On  the  river -banks  that  day 

Cupid  .kissed  me  ! 

Woe  is  me  !   in  cheerless  plight, 

By  the  cold,  sad  river, 
Seek  I  Love,  who  taken  flight, 

Comes  no  more  forever  : 
Love  from  whom  more  pain  than  bliss 

Every  heart  obtaineth, 
For  the   joy  soon  vanished  is 

While  the  pang  remaineth. 


80  CUPID    KISSED    ME. 

Well  -  a  -  day  !    ah ,  well  -  a  -  day  ! 

Would,  Love,  I  had  missed  thee, 
Peace  and  I  are  twain  for  aye, 

Since  Cupid  kissed  me. 


SUMMER    PAST.  81 


SUMMER   PAST. 

the  summer  all  is  over! 
We  heave  wandered  through  the  clover, 
We  have  plucked  in  wood  and  lea 
Blue -bell  and  anemone. 

We  were  children  of   the  sun, 

Yery  brown  to  look  upon  : 

We  were  stained,  hands  and  lips, 
With  the  berries'  juicy  tips. 

And  I  think  that  we  may  know 
Where  the  rankest  nettles  grow, 

And  where  oak  and  ivy  weave 

Crimson  glories  to  deceive. 


82  SUMMER    PAST. 

Now  the  merry  days  are  over  ! 

Woodland  -  tenants  seek  their  cover, 
And  the  swallow  leaves  again 
For  his  castle -nests  in  Spain. 

Shut  the  door,  and  close  the  blind  : 
We  shall  have  the  bitter  wind, 

We  shall  have  the  dreary  rain 
Striving,  driving  at  the  pane. 

Send  the  ruddy  fire  -  light  higher  ; 

Draw  your  easy  chair  up  iiigher  ; 

Through  the  winter,  bleak  and  chill, 
We  may  have  our  summer  still. 

Here  are  poems  we  may  read, 
Pleasant  fancies  to  our  need  : 


SUMMER    PAST.  83 

All,  eternal  summer-time, 
Dwells  within  the  poet's  rhyme  ! 

All  the  birds'  sweet  melodies 

Linger  in  these  songs  of   his  ; 

And  the  blossoms  of  all  ages 

Waft  their  fragrance  from  his  pages. 


8-4  WITH    A    WREATH    OF    LAUREL. 


WITH   A   WREATH   OF   LAUREL. 

WINDS,  that  ripple  the  long  grass ! 
O  winds,  that  kiss  the  jeweled  sea  ! 
Grow  still  and  lingering  as  you  pass 
About  this  laurel  tree. 

Great  Shasta  knew  you  in  the  cloud 

That  turbans  his  white  brow ;    the  sweet, 

Cool  rivers  ;    and  the  woods  that  bowed 
Before  your  pinions  fleet. 

With  meadow  scents  your  breath  is  rife ; 

With  red -wood  odors,  and  with  pine: 
Now  pause  and  thrill  with  twofold  life, 

Each  spicy  leaf   I  twine. 


WITH    A    WREATH    OF    LAUREL.  85 

The  laurel  grows  upon  the  hill 

That  looks  across  the  western  sea. 
O  winds,  within  the  boughs  be  still, 

0  sun,  shine  tenderly, 

And  birds,  sing  soft  about  3-0111-  no.sts  : 

1  twine  a  wreath  for  other  lands  ; 

A  grave  !    nor  wife  nor  child  has  blest 
With  touch  of   loving  hands. 

Where  eyes  are  closed,  divine  and  young, 
Dusked  in  a  night  no  morn  may  break, 

And  hushed  the  poet  lips  that  sung, 
The  songs  none  else  may  wake  : 

Unfelt  the  venomed  arrow- thrust, 
Unheard  the  lips  that  hiss  disgrace, 


86  WITH    A    WKEATH    OF    LAUREL. 

While  the  sad  heart  is  dust,  and  dust 
The  beautiful,  sad  face  ! 

For  him  I  pluck  the  laurel  crown  ! 

It  ripened  in  the  western  breeze, 
Where  Saucelito's  hills  look  down 

Upon  the  golden  seas  ; 

And  sunlight  lingered  in -its  leaves 

From  dawn,   until  the  scarce  dimmed  sky 

Changed  to  the  light  of  stars;    and  waves 
Sang  to  it  constantly. 

I  weave,  and  strive  to  weave  a  tone, 
A  touch,  that,  somehow,  wTheii  it  lies 

Upon  his  sacred  dust,  alone, 
Beneath  the  English  skies, 


WITH    A    WhEATH    OF    LAUREL.  87 

The  sunshine  of   the  arch  it  knew, 
The  calm  that  wrapt  its  native  hill, 

The  love  that  wreathed  its  glossy  hue, 
Mav  breathe  around  it  still  ! 


88  OWNERSHIP. 


OWNERSHIP. 


TN  a  garden  that  I  know, 

Only  palest  blossoms  blow 


There  the  lily,  purest  mm, 

Hides  her  white  face  from   the  sun, 

And  the  maiden  rose-bud  stirs 
In  a  garment  fair  as  hers. 

One  shy  bird,  with  folded  wings, 
Bits  within  the  leaves  and  sings; 

Sits  and  sings  the  daylight  long, 
Just  a  patient  plaintive  song. 


OWNERSHIP.  89 

Other  gardens  greet  the  spring 
With  a  blaze  of   blossoming ; 

Other  song-birds,  piping  clear, 
Chorus  from  the  branches  near  : 

But  my  blossoms,  palest  known, 
Bloom  for  me  and  me  alone  ; 

And  my  bird,  though  sad  and  lonely, 

Sings  for  me,  and  for  me  only. 

7 


90  IN    THE    POUTS. 


IN  THE  POUTS. 

/"CHEEKS  of  an  ominous  crimson, 
Eye -brows  arched  to  a  frown, 
Pretty  red  lips  a -quiver 

With  holding  their  sweetness  down  ; 

Glance  that  is  never  lifted 

From  the  hands  that,  in  cruel  play, 
Are  tearing  the  white -rose  petals, 

And  tossing  their  hearts  away. 

Only  to  think  that  a  whisper, 

An  idle,  meaningless  jest, 
Should  stir  such  a  world  of   passion 

In  a  dear,  little,  loving  breast ! 


IN    THE    POUTS.  91 

Yet  ever  for  such  light  trifles 

Will  lover  and  lass  fall  out, 
And  the  humblest  lad  grow  haughty, 

And  the  gentlest  maiden  pout. 

Of  course,  I  must  sue  for  pardon ; 

For  what  I  can  hardly  say  !  — 
But,  deaf   to  opposing  reason, 

A  woman  will  have  her  way. 

And  when,  in  despite  her  frowning, 
The  scorn,  the  grief,  and  the  rue, 

.She  looks  so  bewitchingly  pretty, 
Why,   what  can  a  fellow  do? 


92  SIESTA. 


SIESTA. 


TF  I  lie  at  ease  in  the  cradling  trees, 

Till  the  day  drops  down  in  the  golden  seas, 
Till  the  light  shall  die  from  the  warm,  wide  sky, 
And  the  cool  night  cover  me — what  care  I? 


All  as  one  when  the  day  is  done, 
The  woven  woof   or  the  web  unspun  : 
In  my  leafy  nest  I  will  lie  at  rest, 
A  careless  dreamer,  and  that  is  best. 

Does  a  brown  eye  wake  for  a  trouble's  sake, 
Ye  little  tenants  of  wood  and  brake  ? 
What  deeper  woe  does  a  wild -bee  know 
Than  to  vex  the  heart  of  a  honey -blow? 


SIESTA.  93 

Bonny  birds,  sing  to  me ;  butterflies,  wing  to  me ; 
Slender  convolvulus,  flutter  and  cling  to  me  ; 
Dim  spice -odors  and  meadow -musk, 
Blow  about  me,  from  dawn  to  dusk  ! 

Though  the  city  frown  from  her  hill  -  tops  brown, 
And  the  weary  toilers  go  up  and  down, 
I  will  lie  at  rest  in  my  leafy  nest, 
A  careless  dreamer,  and  that  is  best. 


94  IN    MEMORIAM. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

HON.  B.  P.  AVERT    DIED   IN   PEKING,  CHINA,  NOV.  8,   1875. 

|^  OD  rest  thy  soul  ! 

O,  kind  and  pure, 

Tender  of  heart,  yet  strong  to  wield  control, 
And  to  endure  ! 

Close  the  clear  eyes  ! 
No  greater  woe 

Earth's  patient  heart,  than  when  a  good  man  dies, 
Can  ever  know. 

With  us  is  night, 
Toil  without  rest ; 


IN    MEMORIA.M.  95 

But  where  thy  gentle  spirit  walks  in  light, 
The  ways  are  blest. 

God's  peace  be  thine  ! 
(rod's  perfect  peace ! 
Thy  meed  of  faithful  service,  until  time 
And  death  shall  cease. 


96 


TWO    PICTURES . 


TWO   PICTUEES. 


MORNING. 


A  3  in  a  quiet  dream, 

The  mighty  waters  seem 
Scarcely  a  ripple  shows 
Upon  their  blue  repose. 

The  sea-gulls  smoothly  ride 
Upon  the  drowsy  tide, 
And  a  white  sail  doth  sleep 
Far  out  upon  the  deep. 

A  dreamy  purple  fills 
The  hollows  of   the  hills ; 


TWO    PICTURES.  97 

A  single  cloud  floats  through 
The  sky's  serenest  blue  ; 

And  far  beyond  the  Gate, 
The  massed  vapors  wait — 
White  as  the  walls  that  ring 
The  City  of   the   King. 

There  is  no  sound,  no  word : 
Only  a  happy  bird 
Trills  to  her  nestling  young, 
A  little,  sleepy  song. 

This  is  the  holy  calm  ; 
The  heavens  dropping  balm  ; 
The  Love  made  manifest, 
And  near  ;    the  perfect  rest. 


98  TWO    PICTURES. 

EVENING. 

The  day  grows  wan  and  cold  : 
In  through  the  Gate  of  Gold 
The  restless  vapors  glide, 
Like  ghosts  upon  the  tide. 

The  brown  bird  folds  her  wing, 
Sad,  with  no  song  to  sing. 
Along  the  streets  the  dust 
Blows  sharp,  with  sudden  gust. 

The  night  comes,  chill  and  gray  ; 
Over  the  sullen  bay, 
What  mournful  echoes  pass 
From  lonely  Alcatraz  ! 

O  bell,  with  solemn  toll, 


TWO    PICTURES.  99 

As  for  a  passing  soul ! 
As  for  a  soul  that  waits, 
In  vain,  at  heaven's  gates  ! 

This  is  the  utter  blight ; 
The  sorrow  infinite 
Of  earth ;   the  closing  wave ; 
The  parting,  and  the  grave. 


100  LONELINESS. 


LONELINESS. 

nPHE  waning  moon  was  up  ;    the  stars 

Were  faint,  and  very  few  ; 
The  vines  about  the  window  -  sill 
Were  wet  with  falling  dew  ; 

A  little  cloud  before  the  wind 
Was  drifting  down  the  west ; 

I  heard  the  moaning  of  the  sea 
In  its  unquiet  rest  : 

Until,  I  know  not  from  what  grief, 

Or  thought  of  other  years, 
The  hand  I  leaned  upon  was  cold, 

And  wet  with  falling  tears. 


BESIDE    THE    DEAD.  101 


BESIDE   THE   DEAD. 

TT  must  be  sweet,  O  thou,  my  dead,  to  lie 

With  hands  that  folded  are  from  every  task  ; 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of   the  great  mystery  - 
The  lips  that  nothing  answer,  nothing  ask. 
The  life -long  struggle  ended;   ended  quite 
The  weariness  of   patience,  and  of   pain  ; 
And  the  eyes  closed  to  open  not  again 
On  desolate  dawn  or  dreariness  of   night. 
It  must  be  sweet  to  slumber  and  forget ; 
To  have  the  poor  tired  heart  so  still  at  last  : 
Done  with  all  yearning,  done  with  all  regret, 
Doubt,  fear,  hope,  sorrow,  all  forever  past  : 
Past  all  the  hours,  or  slow  of   wing  or  fleet — 
It  must  be  sweet,  it  must  be  very  sweet ! 


102  THE    11OAD    TO    SCHOOL. 


THE   KOAD   TO   SCHOOL. 

A     MEADOW  greenly  carpeted; 

A  strip  of   woodland,  brown  and  cool, 
Through  which  the  wandering  pathway  led 
Unto  the  village  school  : 

The  little  pathway  he  and  I, 
Across  the  happy  summer -land, 

In  happy  summer  times  gone  by, 
Trod,  daily,  hand  in  hand. 

The  mountain  stream,  far  off,  that  drew 
Its  glittering  length  across  the  farm, 

Reached  softly  down  the  vale,  and  threw 
The  path  one  cool,  white  arm  ; 


THE    ROAD    TO    SCHOOL.  103 

And  careless  as  the  truant   tide 

That  flashed  its  crystal  in  the  sun, 

Or  slipped  along  the  woodland  side, 
Our  wayward  feet  would  run. 

Through  tangled  ferns,  up  furzy  slopes, 
Where  the  broad  forest  shadows  fell, 

Through  golden  seas  of   buttercups, 
Wind -rippled,  down  the  dell; 

We  plashed  the  foamy  water -brink, 
We  followed  on  the  rabbit's  track, 

And  rang  the  merry  bobolink 
His  saucy  challenge  back. 

How  tenderly,  from  stone  to  stone, 

Where  the  deep  stream  ran   swift  and  clear, 


104  THE    KOAD    TO    SCHOOL. 

He  led  my  timid  footsteps  on  — 
My  gay,  young  cavalier  ! 

He  knew  each  haunt  of   bird  and  bee ; 

The  secret  of  each  nestling  brood  ; 
He  mimicked  every  melody 

That  thrilled  the  listening  wood ; 

With  many  a  carved  and  quaint  design, 
Would  fashion  acorns  into  beads, 

Chains  of   the  needles  of   the  pine, 
And  whistleS  out  of  reeds. 

Ah  !   many  a  time  the  brave  voice  spake, 
An  earnest  pleader  in  my  cause  ; 

The  tanned,  round  hand  went  out  to  take 
Dire  strokes  for  broken  laws ; 


THE    ROAD    TO    SCHOOL.  105 

And  many  a  prompting,  timely  said, 
The  master's  dreaded  anger  turned 

From  the  small,  idle,  flaxen  head 
Whose  tasks  were  yet  unlearned  ! 

What  quaint,  sweet  summer  gifts  he  brought ! 

A  white  pond -lily,  filled  to  th'  brim 
With  scarlet  berries ;    buds,  half  shut ; 

Gold  fruits  on  leaf  and  limb  ; 

Some  wide  -  blown  flower  with  tawny  dyes  ; 

A  butterfly  with   jeweled  wing, 
Or  captive  bird,  with  frighted  eyes 

And  wee  heart,  fluttering. 

Dear  playmate  !   in  those  golden  ways 

Your  heart  found  rest ;    my  heart  endures  : 


106  THE    ROAD    TO    SCHOOL. 

But,  through  the  weary  days  and  days, 
Life  gives  no  love  like  yours  ! 

Life  gives  no  faith  !     Ah,  child -mate,  dear, 
When  the  appointed  years  shall  fall 

• 

From  off  me,  as  a  cloud,  and  near 
And  clear  I  hear  the  call  — 

And  the  new  way  is  strange  to  me, 

Reach  thou,  and  lead  me,  hand -in -hand, 

As  clown  the  path  of  old,  till  we 
Before  the  Master  stand  ! 

There  yet  once  more  thy  brave  voice  raise, 
O  playmate  !   in  thy  truant's  cause, 

For  tasks  unlearned,  for  wasted  days, 
For  all  His  broken  laws  ! 


WHO    KNOWETH?  107 


WHO   KNOWETH? 

TTTHO  knoweth  the  hope  that  was  born  to  me, 
When  the  spring-time  came  with  its  greenery! 
With  orchard  blossoming,  fair  to  see, 
With  drone  of   beetle,  and  buzz  of   bee, 
And  robin  a   trill  on  his  apple-tree, 
Cheerily,  cheerily  ! 

Who  knoweth  the  hope  that  was  dead  —  ah  me! 
That  was  dead  —  and  never  again  to  be, 
When  the  winter  came,  all  dismally, 
With  desolate  rain  on  desolate  sea ; 
With  cold  snow -blossoms  for  wood  and  lea, 
And  the  wind  a -moan  in  the  apple-tree, 
Drearily,  drearily  ! 


108  MAKAH. 


MAKAH. 

song  were  sweeter  and  better 
If  only  the  thought  were  glad." 
Be  hidden  the  chafe  of   the  fetter, 

The  scars  of   the  wounds  you  have  had  ; 
Be  silent  of  stiife  and  endeavor, 
But  shout  of   the  victory  won  ! 
You  may  sit  in  the  shadow  forever, 
If  only  you'll  sing  of   the  sun. 

There  are  hearts,  you  must  know,  over  tender 
With  the  wine  of   the  joy -cup  of   years; 

One  might  dim  for  a  moment  the  splendor 
Of  eyes  unaccustomed  to  tears  : 


MARAH.  109 

So  sing,  if  you  must,  with  the  gladness 
That  brimmed  the  lost  heart  of  your  youth, 

Lest  you  breathe,  in  the  song  and  its  sadness, 
The  secret  of   life  at  its  truth. 

O,  violets,   born  of   the  valley, 

You  are  sweet  in  the  suu  and   the  dew, 
But  your  sisters,  in  yonder  dim  alley, 

Are  sweeter— and  paler— than  you! 
O,  birds,  you  are  blithe  in  the  meadow, 

But  your  mates  of   the  forest  I  love; 
And  sweeter  their  songs  in  its  shadow, 

Though  sadder  the  singing  thereof! 

To  the  wear}r  in  life's  wildernesses 
The  soul  of   the  singer  belongs  : 
Small  need,  in  your  green,  sunny  places, 


110  MAR AH. 

Glad  dwellers,  have  you  of   my  songs. 
For  you  the  blithe  birds  of    the  meadow 

Trill  silverly  sweet,  every  one, 
But  I  can  not  sit  in  the  shadow 

Forever,  and  sing  of  the  sun. 


Ill 


THE  COMING. 

r    GATHERED  flowers  the  summer  long ; 

I  dozed  tbe  days  on  sunny  leas, 
And  wove  my  fancies  into  song, 
Or  dreamed  in  aimless  ease. 

Or  watched,  from  jutting  cliffs,  the  dyes 
Of  changeful  waters  under  me, 

The  lazy  gulls  just  dip  and  rise, 
White  specks  upon  the  sea  — 

And  far  away,  where  blue  to  blue 

Was  wed,  the  ships  that  came  and  went; 

And  thought,  O  happy  world  !    and  drew 
Therefrom  a  full  content. 


112  THE    COMING. 

My  mates  toiled  in  the  ripening  field, 
Nor  paused  for  rest  in  cool  or  beat ; 

The  yellow  grain  made  haste  to  yield 
Its  harvesting  complete  : 

% 

My  mates  toiled  in  their  pleasant  homes, 
They  plucked  the  fruit  from  laden  boughs, 

And  sang — "For  if   the  Master  comes 
And  find  no  ready  house!" 

And  far  and  strange  their  singing  seemed, 
Aud  harsh  the  voices  every  one, 

That  woke  the  pleasant  dream  I  dreamed 
To  thought  of    tasks  undone. 

Yet  still  I  waited,  lingered  still, 
Won   by  a  cloud,  a  soaring  lark ; 


THE    COMING.  113 

Till,  by -and -by,  the  land  was  chill, 
And  all  the  sky  was  dark. 

And  lo,  the  Master!  —  Through  the  night 
My  mates  come  forth  to  welcome  Him  : 

Their  labor  done,  their  garments  white, 
While  mine  are  stained  and  dim. 

They  bring  to  Him  their  golden  sheaves, 
To  Him  their  finished  toil  belongs, 

While  I  have  but  these  withered  leaves, 
And  these  poor,  foolish  songs  ! 


114  REBUKE. 


REBUKE. 

^  TflHE  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  cold, 

And  never  a  day  is  fair,"  I  said. 
Out  of   the  heavens  the  sunlight  rolled, 

The  green  leaves  rustled  above  my  head, 
And  the  sea  was  a  sea  of   gold. 

"The  world  is  cruel,"  I  said  again, 

"Her  voice  is  harsh  to  my  shrinking  ear, 

And  the  nights  are  dreary  and  full  of   pain." 
Out  of   the  darkness,  sweet  and  clear, 

There  rippled  a  tender  strain  : 

Rippled  the  song  of  a  bird  asleep. 

That  sang  in  a  dream  of   the  budding  wood  ; 


REBUKE.  115 

Of  shining  fields  where  the  reapers  reap, 

Of  a  wee  brown  mate  and  a  nestling  brood, 
And  the  grass  where  the  berries  peep. 

"The  world  is  false,  though  the  world  be  fair, 
And  never  a  heart  is  pure,"  I  said. 

And  lo  !   the  clinging  of   white  arms  bare, 
The  innocent  gold  of   my  baby's  head, 

And  the  lisp  of  a  childish  prayer  ! 


110  DISCIPLINE. 


DISCIPLINE. 

TTPON  the  patient  earth 

A  thousand  tempests  beat, 
To  call  to  life  the  flowers 

That  make  her  glad  and  sweet. 

So,  o'er  the  human  heart, 

The  countless  griefs  that  roll, 

But  wake  immortal  joy 
To  bloom  within  the  soul. 


AT    PEACE.  117 


AT   PEACE. 

O  HUT  close  the  wearied  eyes,  O  Sleep  ! 
So  close  no  dreams  may  come  between, 
Of  all  the  sorrows  they  have  seen  ; 
Too  long,  too  sad,  their  watch  hath  been. 

Be  faithful,   Sleep  : 

Lest  they  should  wake  —  remembering; 
Lest  they  should  wake,  and  waking  weep, 
O  Sleep,  sweet  Sleep  ! 

Clasp  close  the  wearied  hands,  O  Rest ! 
Poor  hands,  so  thin  and  feeble  grown 
With  all  the  tasks  which  they  have  done ; 
Now  they  are  finished  —  eveiy  one. 
O  happy  Rest, 


AT    PEACE. 


Fold  tliem  at  last  from  laboring, 
In  quiet  on  the  quiet  breast, 

O  Best,  sweet  Kest  ! 

Press  close  unto  her  heart,  O  Death  ! 
So  close,  not  any  pulse  may  stir 
The  garments  of   her  sepulchre  : 
Lo,  life  hath  been  so  sad  to  her  ! 

O  kindest  Death, 
Within  thy  safest  sheltering 
Nor  pain  nor  sorrow  entereth  — 

O  Death,  sweet  Death  ! 


UNGATHERED.  H9 


UNGATHEKED. 

l^TEVER  a  leaf   is  shorn 

But  the  vine  surely  misses  ; 
From  ministering  night -dews  torn. 
From  the  sun's  kisses. 


Dozing  the  warm  light  in, 

In  cool  winds  rustling  greenly  - 

A  leaflet  with  its  leafy  kin 
Dwelling  serenely. 

Not  ever  bud  doth  fall 

With  blighted  leaves  yet  folden 
Never  to  wear  its  coronal 

Or  white  or  golden  — 


120  UNGATHERED. 

But  from  the  mother  -  stem 
Flutters  a  far,  faint  sighing-  : 

Is  it  a  tender  requiem 
Above  the  dying? 

Who  knows  what  dear  regrets 
Cling  to  the  blossom  broken? 

Who  knows  what  voiceless  longing  frets, 
What  love  unspoken. 

So  through  the  summer  -  shine, 
Your  frail,  brief  lives  securely 

Keep,  all  ye  tender  blossoms  mine, 
Looking  up  purely. 

Enough  to  breathe  the  air 

Made  sweet  with  your  perfuming  ; 


UNGATHERED. 

To  see  through  golden  days  your  fair 
And  perfect  blooming  : 

The  bees  that  round  you  hum, 

The  butterflies  that  woo  you  — 
And  happy,  happy  birds  that  come 

And  sing  unto  you. 
9 


122  LA    FLOR    DEL    SALVADOR. 


T 


LA   FLOR   DEL   SALVADOR. 

|HE  Daffodil  sang  :  ' '  Darling  of  the  sun 
Am  I,  am  I,  that  wear 
His  colors  everywhere." 


The  Violet  pleaded  soft,  in  undertone  : 
"Am  I  less  perfect  made, 
Or  hidden  in  the  shade 

So  close  and  deep,  that  heaven  may  not  see 
Its  own  fair  hue  in  me?" 

The  Rose  stood  up,  full-blown, 
Right  royal  as  a  Queen  upon  her  throne  : 

"Nay,  but  I  reign  alone," 
She  said,  "with  all  hearts  for  my  very  own. 


LA    FLOR    DEL    SALVADOR.  123 

One  whispered,  with  faint  flush,  not  far  away  : 

"I  am  the  eye  of   day, 

And  all  men  love  me;"  and,  with  drowsy  sighs, 
A  Lotus,  from  the  still  pond  where  she  lay, 
Breathed,  -I  am  precious  balm  for  weary  eyes." 

Only  the  fair  field  Lily,  slim  and  tall, 

Spake  not,  for  all  ; 

Spake  not  and  did  not  stir, 
Lapsed  in  some  far  and  tender  memory. 

Softly  I  questioned  her, 

"And  what  of   thee?" 

And  winds  were  lulled  about  the  bended  head, 
And  the  warm  sunlight  swathed  her  as  in  a  flame, 

While  the  awed  answer  came, 

"  Hath  HE  not  said?" 


124  AFTER  THE  WINTER  RAIN, 


AFTER  THE  WINTER  RAIN. 

A   FTER  the  winter  rain, 

Sing,  robin!  — sing,  swallow  I 
Grasses  are  in  the  lane, 

Buds  and  flowers  will  follow. 


Woods  shall  ring,  blithe  and  gay, 
With  bird -trill  and  twitter, 

Though  the  skies  weep  to-day, 
And  the  winds  are  bitter. 

Though  deep  call  unto  deep 

As  calls  the  thunder, 
And  white  the  billows  leap 

The  tempest  under; 


AFTER    THE    WINTER    RAIN.  125 

Softly  the  waves  shall  come 

Up  the  long-,  bright  beaches, 
"With  dainty  flowers  of  foam 

And  tenderest  speeches 

After  the  wintry  pain, 

And  the  long,  long  sorrow, 
Sing,  heart!— for  thee  again 
Joy  comes  with  the  morrow. 


126  OBLIVION. 


OBLIVION. 

T>EYOND  the  flight  of   hours, 
Beneath  the  rooted  flowers, 

Where  winter  rain,  nor  showers 
Of  April,  fall ; 

Where  days  that  say  "Alas!" 

Forget  to  come,  to  pass; 

And  joy  or  grief   that  was, 
Is  ended  all. 

There  never  sunlight  gleams ; 
There  sleep  begets  not  dreams; 
Therein  no  voice  of  streams, 

Nor  voice  of   trees. 
From  shadow  into  sun, 


OBLIVION.  .  127 


From  light  to  shadow  won, 
No  shining  rivers  run 
To  shining  seas. 

No  birds  of  morning  throat 
Their  joy  from  skies  remote  ; 
From  the  still  leaves  no  note 

On  either  hand  ; 
No  love-lorn  nightingale, 
That  sings  while  stars  wax  pale, 
And  moonlight,  as  a  veil, 

Is  011  the  land. 

Many  the  dwellers  are 
Within  that  valley  far, 
Lit  by  nor  sun  nor  star, 
Where  no  dawn  is ; 


128  OBLIVION. 

Where  sleep  broods  as  a  dove  ; 
And  love  forgot  of   love, 
The  dead  delights  thereof 
Can  never  miss. 

Wherein  is  spoken  word, 
Nor  any  laughter  heard ; 
The  eyelids  are  not  stirred 

By  touch  of   tears ; 
Wherein  the  poet's  brain 
The  rapture  and  the  pain 
Of  song  knows  not  again, 

Through  all  the  years. 

Pale  leaves  of  poppies  shed 
About  the  brows  and  head. 
From  whence  the  laurel,  dead, 


OBLIVION.  129 


Is  dropped  to  dust. 
Strength  laid  in  armor  down 
To  mold,  and  on  the  gown 
The  mold,  and  on  the  crown 

The  mold  and  rust. 

So  evermore  they  lie  : 
The  ages  pass  them  by, 
Them  doth  the  Earth  deny, 

And  Time  forget ; 
Toid  in  the  years,  the  ways, 
As  a  star  loosed  from  space, 
Upon  whose  vacant  place 

The  sun  is  set. 


130  QUESTION    AND    ANSWER. 

QUESTION   AND   ANSWEE. 

"TTTHAT  gift  hast  thou  for  Me, 
The  Crucified  for  thee?" 

No  worthy  thing  : 
Nor  song,  nor  praise,  nor  tears, 
From  all  these  many  years, 
Jesus,  my  King. 

"In  ways  thy  feet  have  sought, 
In  that  thy  hands  have  wrought, 

Whatso  for  Me?" 
Ah,  in  those  dreary  walks, 
Behold  the  flowerless  stalks, 

The  fruitless  tree  ! 

"Thy  heart  hath  love,  at  least  — 
I  crave  thy  love."     O   Priest, 


QUESTION    AND    ANSWER.  131 

It  were  not  meet 
From  bitter  wells  to  slake 
Thy  thirst.  Touch  thou,  and  make 

Its  waters  sweet. 

"Thy  soul  —  that  it  may  live!" 
Is  it  then  mine  to  give? 

O  Saviour,  cease  ! 
Like  to  a  troubled  sea, 
My  spirit  is  in  me  : 

Lord,  speak  it  peace. 

"Unto  thy  Friend,  thy  King, 
Hast  then  no  offering, 

No  gift  to  give?" 
For  all  Thy  love,  Thy  care, 
Only  one  little  prayer : 

Saviour,  forgive  ! 


132  TO-DAY'S  SINGING 


TO-DAY'S   SINGING. 

"TTTEAYE  me  a  rhyme  to  -  day  : 

No  pleasant  roundelay, 
But  some  vague,  restless  yearning  of   the  heart 

Shaped  with  but  little  art 
To  broken  numbers,  that  shall  flow 

Most  dreamily  and  slow. 
I  think  no  merry  fancy  should  belong 

To  this  day's  song. 

Look  how  the  maple  stands, 

Waving  its  bleeding  hands 
With  such  weird  gestures ;   and  the  petals  fall 
From  the  dry  roses  —  pale,  nor  longer  sweet: 


TO-DAY'S  SINGING.  133 

And  by  the  garden -wall 
The  unclasped  vines,  and  all 
These  sad  dead  leaves,  a -rustle  at  our  feet. 

Dear  bodies  of   the  flowers, 
From  which  the  little  fragrant  souls  are  fled, 

Beside  you,  lying  dead, 
We  say,  "Another  summer  shall  be  ours 
When  all  these  naked  boughs  shall  flush  and  flame 
With  fresh,  young  blossoms."     Aye,  but  not  the 

same  ! 

And  that  is  saddest.     By  the  living  bloom, 
Who  cares  for  last  year's  beauty — in  the  tomb? 

Spring,  blossom,  and  decay. 
Ah,  poet,  sing  thy  day  — 
So  brief  a  day,  alas  !  .   .   .   . 


134  TO-DAY'S  SINGING.  _ 

Beloved,  and  shall  we  pass 

Beneath  the  living  grass, 

Out  from  the  glad,  warm  splendor  of   the  sun? 
A  little  dust  about  some  old  tree's  root, 

With  all  our  voices  mute, 

And  all  our  singing  done? 


FRUITIONLESS.  135 


FEUITIONLESS. 

A    H!   little  flower,  up  -  springing,  azure -eyed, 
The  meadow -brook  beside, 
Dropping  delicious  balms 
Into  the  tender  palms 
Of   lover -winds,  that  woo  with  light  caress  : 

In  still  contentedness, 
Living  and  blooming  thy  brief  summer -day. 

So  wiser  far  than  I, 
.    That  only  dream  and  sigh, 
And  sighing,  dream  my  listless  life  away  ! 

Ah,  sweet -heart  birds,  a -building  your  wee  house, 
In  the  broad  -  leaved  boughs  ! 
Pausing  Avith  merry  trill 
To  praise  each  other's  skill, 


136  FRUITIONLESS. 

And  nod  your  pretty  heads  with  pretty  pride; 
Serenely  satisfied 

To  trill  and  twitter  love's  sweet  roundelay. 
So  happier  than  I, 
That,  lonely,  dream  and  sigh, 

And  sighing,  dream  my  lonely  life  away  ! 

Brown -bodied  bees,  that  scent  with  nostrils  fine 
The  odorous  blossom -wine  ; 

Sipping,  with  heads  half   thrust 

Into  the  pollen  dust 
Of   rose  and  hyacinth  and  daffodil : 

To  hive,  in  amber  cell, 
A  honey  feasting  for  the  winter -day. 

So  better  far  than  I, 

Self -wrapt,  that  dream  and  sigh, 
And  sighing,  dream  my  useless  life  away  ! 


THE    FADED    FLOWER.  187 


THE   FADED   FLOWER. 

TTTE  watched  in  the  dear  Home  garden 

Our  tenderest  flower  that  grew  : 
Never  a  budling  rarer 

The  sun  of   the  ages  knew  ! 

And  we  said,  "When  our  leaves  shall  wither, 

Our  petals  shall  drop  away, 
The  grace  of   this  perfect  blossom 

Shall  brighten  our  own  decay." 

Never  the  dews  shall  nourish, 

Never  the  tender  rain; 
Never  the  sun's  warm  kisses 

Shall  crimson  thy  lips  again  ! 
10 


138  THE    FADED    FLOWER. 

O  heart  of  our  hearts,  May -blossom, 

Hope  of  our  lessening  day, 
The  bloom  and  the  grace  and  the  fragrance, 

Are  passed  with  thy  breath  away  ! 


DAISIES.  139 


DAISIES. 

TT7HEKEFOKE  is  it,  as  I  pass 

Through  the  fragrant  meadow-grass, 

That  the  daisies,  nestling  shyly  in  sweet  places, 
Lifting  crispy,  curly  heads 
From  their  wee,  warm  clover -beds, 

Seem  to  my  imagining,  little  elfin  faces. 

Can  it  be  the  daisies  speak? 

Leaning  rosy  cheek  to  cheek, 
In  a  merry  gossiping,  lightly  nodding  after? 

Or  a          y,  that  I  heard 

Just  the  faintest  whispered  word, 
And  a  silver -echoing  ripple  of  soft  laughter? 


140  "ONE  TOUCH  OF  NATURE/' 


"ONE   TOUCH   OF   NATURE." 

A     LARK'S  song  dropped  from  heaven, 

A  rose's  breath  at  noon; 
A  still,  sweet  stream  that  flows  and  flows 
Beneath  a  still,  sweet  moon  : 

A  little  way -side  flower 

Plucked  from  the  grasses,  thus ! 

A  sound,  a  breath,  a  glance  —  and  yet 
What  is  't  they  bring  to  us? 

For  the  world  grows  far  too  wise, 

And  wisdom  is  but  grief : 
Much  thought  makes  but  a  weary  way, 

And  question,  unbelief. 


"  ONE    TOUCH    OF    NATURE."  14J[ 

Thank  God  for  the  bird's  song, 

And  for  the  flower's  breath  ! 
Thank  God  for  any  voice  to  wake 

The  old  sweet  hymn  of  faith ! 

For  a  world  grown  all  too  wise, 

( Or  is  't  not  wise  enough )  ? 
Thank  God  for  anything  that  makes 

The  path  less  dark  and  rough  ! 


142  MEADOW  -  LARKS. 


MEADOW -LARKS. 

,  sweet,  sweet !     O  happy  that  I  am  ! 
(Listen    to    the    meadow  -  larks,    across    the 

fields  that  sing), 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  !     O  subtle  breath  of  balm ! 
O  winds  that  blow,  O  buds  that  grow,  O  rap 
ture  of   the  spring. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !     O  skies,  serene  and  blue, 
That  shut  the  velvet  pastures  in ;  that  fold  the 

mountain's  crest ! 
Sweet,   sweet,   sweet !      What    of    the    clouds   ye 

knew? 

The  vessels  ride  a  golden  tide,  upon  a  sea  at 
rest. 


MEADOW  -  LARKS.  143 

Sweet,  sweet,   sweet !     Who   prates   of   care   and 

pain? 
Who    says   that   life   is   sorrowful  ?      O   life    so 

glad,  so  fleet ! 
Ah  !   he  who  lives  the  noblest  life  finds  life  the 

noblest  gain, 

The   tears   of   pain   a  tender   rain   to  make  its 
waters  sweet. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !     O  happy  world  that  is ! 
Dear  heart,  I  hear  across  the  fields  my  mate- 
ling  pipe  and  call. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !     O  world  so  full  of  bliss ! 
For  life  is  love,  the  world  is  love,  and  love  is 
over  all ! 


144  I    CAN    NOT    COUNT    MY    LIFE    A    LOSS. 


I   CAN   NOT   COUNT  MY  LIFE   A   LOSS. 

T  CAN  not  count  my  life  a  loss, 
With  all  its  length  of  evil  days. 

I  hold  them  only  as  the  dross 

About  its  gold,  whose  worth  outweighs ; 
For  each  and  all  I  give  Him  praise. 

For,  drawing  nearer  to  the  brink 
That  leadeth  down  to  final  rest, 

I  see  with  clearer  eyes,  I  think; 

And  much  that  vexed  me  and  oppressed, 
Have  learned  was  right,  and   just,  and  best. 

So,  though  I  may  but  dimly  guess 


I   CAN    NOT    COUNT    MY    LIFE    A    LOSS.  145 

Its  far  intent,  this  gift  of   His 
I  honor;   nor  would  know  the  less 
One  sorrow,  or  in  pain  or  bliss 
Have  other  than  it  was  and  is. 


146  FROM    LIVING    WATERS. 


FROM   LIVING   WATERS. 

COMMENCEMENT  POEM,    WRITTEN   FOR   THE   UNIVERSITY 
OF    CALIFORNIA,    JUNE,    1876. 

"JNTO  the  balm  of  the  clover, 
Into  the  dawn  and  the  dew, 
Come,   O  my  poet,  my  lover, 
Single  of  spirit  and  true ! 

"  Sweeter  the  song  of  the  throstle 

Shall  ring  from  its  nest  in  the  vine, 
And  the  lark,  my  beloved  apostle, 
Shall  chant  thee  a  gospel  divine. 

11  Ah!  not  to  the  dullard,  the  schemer, 
I  of  my  fullness  may  give, 


FROM   LIVING    WATERS.  147 

But  thou,  whom  the  ivorld  calleth  dreamer, 
Drink  of  my  fountains  and  live!" 

Q,  and  golden  in  the  sun  did  the  river  waters  run, 

O,  and  golden  in  its  shining  all  the  mellow  land 
scape  lay ; 

And  the  poet's  simple  rhyme  blended  softly  with 
the  chime 

Of  the  bells  that  rang  the  noontide,  in  the  city, 
far  away. 

And  the  gold  and  amethyst  of  the  thin,  trans 
parent  mist, 

Lifted,  drifted  from  the  ocean  to  the  far  hori 
zon's  rim, 

Where  the  white,  transfigured  ghost  of  some  ves 
sel,  long  since  lost, 


148 


FKOM    LIVING    WATERS. 


Half  in  cloud  and  half  in  billow,  trembled  on 
its  utmost  brim. 

And  I  said,  "Most  beautiful,  in  thy  noontide 
dream  and  lull, 

Art  thou,  Nature,  sweetest  mother,  in  thy  sum 
mer  raiment  drest ; 

Aye,  in  all  thy  moods  and  phases,  lovingly  I 
name  thy  praises, 

Yet  through  all  my  love  and  longing  chafeth 
still  the  old  unrest." 


"Art  thou  a- worn  and  a- weary, 

Sick  with  the  doubts  that  perplex, 
Come  from  thy  wisdom  most  dreary, 

Less  fair  than  the  faith  which  it  wrecks  ? 


FHOM    LIVING    WATERS.  149 


' '  Not  in  the  tomes  of  the  sagex 
Lieth  the  word  to  thy  need ; 
Truer  my  blossomy  pages, 
Sweeter  their  lessons  to  read. 


"Aye,"  I  said,  "but  con  it  duly,  who  may  read 

the  lesson  truly ; 
Who    may    grasp    the    mighty    meaning,    hidden 

past  our  finding  out? 
From  the  weary  search  unsleeping,  what  is  yielded 

to  our  keeping? 
All  our  knowledge,  peradventure ;  all  our  wisdom 

merely  doubt ! 


"O  my  Earth,  to  know   thee   fully!   I   that  love 
thee,  singly,  wholly ! 


150  FROM   JLIVING    WATERS. 

In  thy  beauty   thou   art   veiled ;   in   thy  melody 

art  dumb. 
Once,  unto  my  perfect  seeing  give  this  mystery 

of  being  ; 
Once,  thy  silence  breaking,  tell  me,  whither  go 

we?   whence  we  come?" 

And  I  heard  the  rustling  leaves,  and  the  sheaves 
against  the  sheaves 

Clashing  lightly,  clashing  brightly,  as  they  rip 
ened  in  the  sun  ; 

And  tlfe  gracious  air  astir  with  the  insect  hum 
and  whirr, 

And  the  merry  plash  and  ripple  where  the  river 
waters  run  :  . 

Heard  the  anthem  of  the  sea  —  that  most  mighty 
melody  — 


FROM    LIVING    WATERS.  151 

Only  these;   yet  something  deeper  than  to  own 

my  spirit  willed. 
Like  a  holy  calm  descending,  with  my  inmost 

being  blending  — 
Like  the  "Peace"  to  troubled  waters,  that  are 

pacified  and  stilled. 

And  I  said:  "Ah,  what  are  we?  Children  at  the 
Master's  knee  — 

Little  higher  than  these  grasses  glancing  upward 
from  the  sods  ! 

Just  the  few  first  pages  turning  in  His  mighty 
book  of  learning — 

We,  mere  atoms  of  beginning,  that  would  wres 
tle  with  the  gods  ! " 

"'In  the  least  one  of  my  daisies 


152  FROM    LIVING    WATERS. 

Deeper  a  meaning  is  set, 
Than  the  seers  ye  crown  ivith  your  praises, 
Have  wrung  from  the  centuries  yet. 

"Leave  them  their  doubt  and  derision; 

Lo,  to  the  knowledge  I  bring, 
Glingeth  no  dimness  of  vision  ! 
Come,  0  my  chosen,  my  king  ! 

"  Out  from  the  clouds  that  cover, 

The  night  that  ivould  blind  and  betray, 
Gome,  0  my  poet,  my  lover, 
Into  the  golden  day!" 

O,  and  deeper  through  the  calm  rolled  the  cease 
less  ocean  psalm ; 


FROM    LIVING    WATERS.  153 

O,  and  brighter  in  the  sunshine  all  the  meadows 

stretched  away; 
And   a    little    lark    sang    clear   from    the    willow 

branches  near, 
And  the  glory  and  the  gladness  closed  about  me 

where  I  lay. 

And  I  said  :  "Aye,  verily,  waiteth  yet  the  mas 
ter  key, 

All  these  mysteries  that  shall  open,  though  to 
surer  hand  than  mine ; 

All  these  doubts  of  our  discerning,  to  the  peace 
of  knowledge  turning, 

All  our  darkness,  which  is  human,  to  the  light, 

which  is  divine  ! " 
11 


154  IN    ADVERSITY. 


IN   ADVERSITY. 


TJ1RIENDS  whom  I  feasted  in  my  luxury, 
In  sorrow  turned  from  me. 


A  hundred  servitors,  that  once  did  wait 
Upon  my  high  estate, 

Me  —  desolate,  forsaken,  old,  and  poor — 
Thrust  from  my  own  house -door. 

Only  that  One  whom  I  in  joy  forgot, 
My  fault  remembered  not, 

And  in  my  tears  of   late -born  penitence 
Drove  me  not,  scorning-,  hence. 


IN    ADVERSITY.  155 

His  strong  arm  raised  me  where  I  prostrate  fell ; 
He  made  my  bruised  heart  well ; 

My  thirst  He  quenched;  my  hunger  gave  He  bread; 
And  my  weak  steps  He  led 

Through  the  blind  dark  of  desert  sands,  to  where 
His  fresh,  green  pastures  were. 

O,  calm  and  fair  the  days,  and  all  delights 
Make  beautiful  the  nights  ! 

O,  fair  the  nights,  and  beautiful  the  days, 
Within  these  quiet  ways  ! 

What  need  is  there  which  He  may  not  supply? 
Familiar  steps  go  by, 


156  IN    ADVERSITY. 

And  well-known  voices  die  upon  niy  ear  — 
But  He  is  ever  near  ! 

The  vision  of  all  beauty  and  all  grace 
Is  in  His  perfect  face. 

Sweeter  His  voice  is  than  the  melodies 
Wherewith  I  lulled  my  ease. 

Wisdom  and  truth,  and  measures  of  sweet  song, 
Unto  His  words  belong ; 

And  to  my  lowly  roof  His  presence  brings 
Splendor  exceeding  kings' ! 


SUMMONS.  157 


SUMMONS. 

/~\  LONG,  swinging  bells  of  pomegranate  ! 

O  orange -buds,  falling  as  snow! 
O  singing  of   lark  and  of   linnet  — 

Singing  high  in  the  leaves,   singing  low  — 
Can  you  sing  to  my  heart,  can  you  win  it 

One  moment  to  these,  ere  I  go? 

What  flowers  shall  be  sweeter  than  these  are? 

What  sky  shall  be  blue  as  this  sky? 
As  a  fair,  fringed  girdle  the  trees  are, 

About  the  green  place  where  I  lie  ; 
And  the  swarms  of   the  brown  honey-bees  are 

As  clouds  over  clover  and  rye. 


158  SUMMONS. 

But  ah  !   for  the  singing  of  swallows 

What  thought,  though  the  singing  be  sweet ! 

What  ease,  though  the  grass  of  the  hollows 
And  hills  be  as  down  to  my  feet  ! 

Love  beckons,  the  ready  heart  follows, 
How  fleet  to  the  summons,  how  fleet  ! 

And  unto  the  dove,  as  she  cooeth, 
It 's  O,  for  the  wings  of   the  dove  !  — 

And  unto  the  wind,  as  it  bloweth, 

For  the  pinions  and  fleetness  thereof  — 

That  the  feet  unto  where  the  heart  goeth 
May  be  swift,  may  be  swift,  to  my  love  ! 


SUFFICIENT.  159 


SUFFICIENT. 

/^ITEON,  pomegranate, 

Apricot  and  peach  ; 
Flutter  of  apple  -  blows 

Whiter  than  the  snow ; 
Filling  the  silence 

With  their  leafy  speech. 


Budding  and  blooming 


Down  row  after  row. 

Breaths  of  blown  spices, 
Which  the  meadows  yield 

Blossoms  broad -petaled, 
Starry  buds  and  small  : 


160  SUFFICIENT. 

Gold  of   the  hill -sides, 
Purple  of   the  field, 

Waft  to  my  nostrils 

Their  fragrance,  one  and  all, 

Birds  in  the  tree -tops, 
Birds  that  fill  the  air, 

Trilling,   piping,  singing, 

» 

In  their  merry  moods  : 
Gold  wing  and  brown  wing, 

Flitting  here  and  there, 
To  the  coo  and  chirrup 

Of   their  downy  broods. 

What  grace  has  summer 

Better  that  can  suit? 
What  gift  can  autumn 


SUFFICIENT.  161 


Bring  us  more  to  please  ? 
Bed  of  blown  roses, 

Mellow  tints  of  fruit, 
Never  can  be  fairer, 

Sweeter  than  are  these. 


162  A    PRAYER. 


A  PBAYER. 

/  \   SOUL  !   however  sweet 
The  goal  to  which  I  hasten  with  swift  feet  — 

If,  just  within  my  grasp, 

I  reach,  and  joy  to  clasp, 
And  find  there  one  whose  body  I  must  make 

A  footstool  for  that  sake, 
Though  ever  and  forevermore  denied, 

Grant  me  to  turn  aside  ! 

O,  howsoever  dear 

The  love  I  long  for,  seek,  and  find  anear  — 
So  near,  so  dear,  the  bliss 
Sweetest  of  all  that  is, 


A    PRAYER.  163 

If   I  must  win  by  treachery  or  art, 

Or  wrong  one  other  heart, 
Though  it  should  bring  me  death,  my  soul,  that  day 

Grant  me  to  turn  away  ! 

That  in  the  life  so  far 
And  yet  so  near,  I  be  without  a  scar 
Of  wounds  dealt  others !     Greet  with  lifted  eyes 

The  pure  of   Paradise  ! 

So  I  may  never  know 
The  agony  of   tears  I  caused  to  flow  ! 


164  THE    BROOK. 


THE   BROOK. 

npHKOUGH  the  dreary  winter, 

Ice -locked,  white,  and  chill ! 
All  its  laughter  sleeping, 

All  its  music  still ; 
Not  a  flower  to  love  it 
From  the  bank  above  it ; 

Not  a  bird  to  trill, 
In  its  ripples  laving 

Yellow  wing  and  bill ; 
No  green,  shadowy  silence, 

Where  one  may  go  at  will, 

And  dream  and  dream  one's  fill. 

Without  voice  or  color, 


THE    BROOK.  165 


In  a  barren  land  : 
Dripping  skies  bent  over, 
Dripping  skies  that  stand, 
Forlorn,  on  either  hand. 


But  a  little  sunshine  — 

How  its  voice  shall  wake  ! 
Over  sand  and  pebble 
Ring  the  silver  treble, 

Glad  for  summer's  sake  ! 
Fairy  boats  shall  ride  it, 
Lovers  walk  beside  it, 

Birds  build  in  the  brake; 
Flowers  and  flowering  sedges 
Laugh  along  its  edges  — 

Glad,  for  summer's  sake  ! 


166  THE    BROOK. 

Just  a  little  sunshine, 

And  the  clouds  will  part ; 
All  its  fettered  beauty 

Into  life  will  start. 
Be  glad,  thou  shining  rover, 
With  bird,  and  bee,  and  clover : 
Sing  summer  through  and  over, 

Ah,  happy  that  thou  art  !  .   . 
Just  a  little  sunshine  — 

O  my  heart,  my  heart ! 


AN    EMBLEM.  167 


AN  EMBLEM. 

T  WAITED  for  a  single  flower  to  blow, 

While  all  about  me  flowers  were  running  wild : 
Gold -hearted  kingcups,  sunnily  that  smiled, 

And  daisies  like  fresh -fallen  flakes  of  snow, 

And  rarest  violets,  sweet  whole  colonies 
Nestled  in  shady  grasses  by  the  brooks, 
That   sang,  for  love    of   them   and   their  sweet 
looks, 

Delicious  melodies. 

Now  they  are  perished,  all  the  fragile  throng, 
That  held  their  sweetness  up  to  me  in  vain. 
Only  this  single  blossom  doth  remain, 

For  whose  unfolding  I  have  waited  long, 


168  AN    EMBLEM. 

Thinking,  "  How  rare  a  bloom  these  petals  clasp!" 
And  lo !  a  sickly,  dwarfed,  and  scentless  thing, 
Mocking  my  love  and  its  close  nourishing, 

And  withering  in  my  grasp. 

O  dream  !   O  hope  !     O  promise  of   long  years : 
Art  thou  a  flower  that  I  have  nurtured  so, 
Missing  the  every -day  sweet  joys  that  grow 

By  common  pathways ;  moistened  with  my  tears, 

Watched   through   the   dreary  day   and   sleepless 

night, 

And  all  about  thy  slender  rootlets  cast 
My  life  like  wa.ter,  but  to  find  at  last 

A  bitterness  and  blight? 


FORGOTTEN.  169 


FORGOTTEN. 

/^VH,  my  heart,  when  life  is  done, 

How  happy  will  the  hour  be  ! 
All  its  restless  errands  run  : 
Noontide  past,  and  set  of  sun, 
And  the  long,  long  night  begun  ; 
How  happy  will  the  hour  be  ! 

Sunlight,  like  a  butterfly, 

Drop  down  and  kiss  the  roses ; 

Starlight,  softly  come  and  lie 
Where  dreamful  slumber  closes ; 

But  Death,  sweet  Death,  be  nigh,  be  nigh, 

Where  love  in  peace  reposes  ! 
12 


170  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


OEACE  in  thy  snowy  breast, 

O  cloud,  from  storms  at  rest  ! 
Peace  in  the  winds  that  sleep 
Upon  the  deep. 

Peace  in  the  starry  height  : 
Peace  infinite, 

Through  all  the  worlds  that  mo\ 

Within  His  love. 

(),  all  sad  hearts,  that  be 
On  land  or  on  the  sea, 

God's  peace  with  you  rest  light 

This  Christinas  night  ! 


CHBISTMAS    EVE.  171 

And  with  the  souls  that  stand 
In  that  dear  land 

Where  pain  and  all  tears  cease, 

Most  perfect  peace  ! 


172  FULFILLMENT. 


FULFILLMENT. 

TjlOR  the  fledgeling  bird- life  stilled, 

Its  wings  untaught, 
Its  music  all  untrilled  ; 
For  the  poet's  voiceless  thought, 

The  song  unsung; 
For  the  loving  heart  unsought ; 
Hope,  fair  and  sweet  and  young, 

Dead  —  nor  forgot ; 
For  the  seed  that  is  not  sown, 
And  the  bud  that  falls  unblown, 

What  shall  atone? 

Somewhere  the  seed  must  spring, 
The  song  be  sung  ; 


FULFILLMENT.  173 

Somewhere,  green  boughs  among, 

The  bird  must  sing, 

Must  brood  and  build  ; 
Somewhere  the  heart  be  wooed ; 
Somewhere,  far  out  of  pain, 
Hope,  fair  and  strong,  again 

Rise  from  the  tomb. 
Somewhere,  for  God  is  good, 
Life's  blossoms,  unfulfilled, 
Must  spring  from  dust  and  gloom 

To  perfect  bloom. 


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